^ ; : 




THE 



DRAMATIC WOKKS 



OF 



SIR JOHN VANBRUGH 



^ 






Ctr^\\^ 



-^^ 



VI 



31 



>\*« 





\u 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 

3 ®ont0iJB. 



BEING THE SEQUEL OF "THE FOOL IN FASHION. 



t$ 



THE PREFACE. 

To go about to excuse half the defects this abortive brat is come into the world with, would be to provoke the town 
with a long useless preface, when 'tis, I doubt, sufficiently soured already by a tedious play. 

I do therefore (with all the humility of a repenting sinner) confess, it wants everything — but length ; and in that, 
I hope, the severest critic will be pleaied to acknowledge I have not been wanting. But my modesty will sure atone 
for everything, when the world shall know it is so great, I am even to this day insensible of those two shining graces in 
the play (which some part of the town is pleased to compliment me with) — blasphemy and bawdy. 

For my part, I cannot find them out, If there were any obscene expressions upon the stage, here they are in the 
print ; for I have dealt fairly, I have not sunk a syllable that could (though by racking of mysteries) be ranged under 
that head ; and yet I believe with a steady faith, there is not one woman of a real reputation in town, but when she has 
read it impartially over in her closet, will find it so innocent, she'll think it no affront to her prayer-book, to lay it upon 
the same shelf, So to them (with all manner of deference) I entirely refer my cause ; and I'm confident they'll justify 
me against those pretenders to good manners, who, at the same time, have so little respect for the ladies, they would 
extract a bawdy jest from an ejaculation, to put 'em out of countenance. But I expect to have these well-bred persons 
always my enemies, since I'm sure I shall never write anything lewd enough to make 'em my friends. 

As for the saints (your thorough-paced ones, I mean, with screwed faces and wry mouths) I despair of them, for they 
are friends to nobody. They love nothing but their altars and themselves. They have too much zeal to have any 
" i rity ; they make debauches in piety, as sinners do in wine ; and are as quarrelsome in their religion, as other people 
are m their drink : so I hope nobody will mind what they say. But if any man (with flat plod shoes, a little band, 
greasy hair, and a dirty face, who is wiser than I, at the expense of being forty years older) happens to be offended at 
a stcry of a cock and a bull, and a priest and a bull-dog, I beg his pardon with all my heart ; which, I hope, I shall 
obtain, by eating my words, and making this public recantation. I do therefore, for his satisfaction, acknowledge I 
\L'-~ when I said, they never quit their hold ; for in that little time I have lived in the world, I thank God I have seen 
forced to it more than once : but next time I'll speak with more caution and truth, and only say, they have very 
good teeth. 

If I have offended any honest gentlemen of the town, whose friendship or good word is worth the having, I am very 
sorry for it ; I hope they'll correct me as gently as they can, when they consider I have had no other design, in running 
a very great risk, than to divert (if possible) some part of their spleen, in spite of their wives and their taxes. 

One word more about the bawdy, and I have done. I own the first night this thing was acted, some indecencies had 
like to have happened, but 'twas not my fault. 

The fine gentleman of the play, drinking his mistress's health in Nantes brandy, from six in the morning to the time 
he waddled on upon the stage in the evening, had toasted himself up to such a pitch of vigour, I confess I once gave 
Amanda for gone, and am since (with all due respect to Mrs. Rogers) very sorry she scaped ; for I am confident a certain 
lady (let no one take it to herself that's handsome) who highly blames the play, for the barrenness of the conclusion, 
would then have allowed it a very natural close. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Sir Novelty Fashion, newly created Lord Foppington. 

Tom Fashion, his Brother. 

Loveless, Husband to Amanda. 

Worthy, a Gentleman of the Town. 

Sir Tunbelly Clumsey, a Country Gentleman. 

Sir John Friendly, his Neighbour. 

Coupler, a Match-maker. 

Bull, Chaplain to Sir Tunbelly. 

Syringe, a Surgeon. 

Lory, Servant to Tom Fashion. 

La Verole, Valet to Lord Foppington. 

Mendlegs, a Hosier. 



Foretop, a Periwig-maker. 
Tug, a Waterman. 

Amanda, Wife to Loveless. 
Berinthia, her Cousin, a young Widow. 
Miss Hoyden, a great Fortune, Daughter to Sir Tun- 
belly. 
Nurse, her Governanle. 
Mrs. Calico, a Sempstress. 
Abigail, Maid to Berinthia. 

Shoemaker, Tailor, Constable, Clerk, Porter, Page, 
Musicians, Dancers, &c. 



SCENE, — Sometimes in London, sometimes in the Country. 



302 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



FIRST PROLOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY MISS CROSS. 



Ladies, this Play in too much haste was writ, 

To be o'ercharged with either plot or wit ; 

'Twas got, conceived, and born in six weeks' 

space, 
And wit, you know, 's as slow in growth as — 

grace. 
Sure it can ne'er be ripen'd to your taste ; 
I doubt 'twill prove, our author bred too fast : 
For mark 'em well, who with the Muses marry, 
They rarely do conceive, but they miscarry. 
'Tis the hard fate of those who are big with rhyme, 
Still to be brought to bed before their time. 
Of our late poets Nature few has made ; 
The greatest part are — only so by trade. 
Still want of something brings the scribbling fit ; 
For want of money some of 'em have writ, 
And others do't, you see, for — want of wit. 
Honour, they fancy, summons 'em to write, 



So out they lug in wresty Nature's spite, 

As some of you spruce beaux do —when you fight. 

Yet let the ebb of wit be ne'er so low, 

Some glimpse of it a man may hope to show, 

Upon a theme so ample as — a beau. 

So, howsoe'er true courage may decay, 

Perhaps there's not one smock-face here to-day, 

But's bold as Csesar — to attack a play. 

Nay, what's yet more, with an undaunted face, 

To do the thing with more heroic grace, 

'Tis six to four ye attack the strongest place. 

You are such Hotspurs in this kind of venture, 

Where there's no breach, just there you needs must 

enter : 
But be advised — 

E'en give the hero and the critic o'er, 
For Nature sent you on another score ; — 
She form'd her beau, for nothing but her whore. 



PROLOGUE ON THE THIRD DAY. 

SPOKEN BY MRS. VERBRUGGEN. 



Apologies for Plays, experience shows, 
Are things almost as useless as — the beaux. 
Whate'er we say (like them) we neither move 
Your friendship, pity, anger, nor your love. 
'Tis interest turns the globe ; let us but find 
The way to please you, and you'll soon be kind : 
But to expect, you'd for our sakes approve, 
Is just as though you for their sakes should love ; 
And that, we do confess, we think a task 
Which (though they may impose) we never ought 
to ask. 
This is an age, where all things we improve, 
But, most of all, the art of making love. 
In former days, women were only won 
By merit, truth, and constant service done ; 
But lovers now are much more expert grown ; 
They seldom wait, to approach by tedious form ; 
They're for despatch, for taking you by storm : 
Quick are their sieges, furious are their fires, 
Fierce their attacks, and boundless their desires. 
Before the Play's half ended, I'll engage 
To show you beaux come crowding on the stage, 
Who with so little pains have always sped, 
They'll undertake to look a lady dead. 



How have I shook, and trembling stood with 

awe, 
When here, behind the scenes, I've seen 'em 

draw 
— A comb ; that dead-doing weapon to the heart, 
And turn each powder' d hair into a dart ! 
When I have seen 'em sally on the stage, 
Dress'd to the war, and ready to engage, 
I've mourn' d your destiny — yet more their fate, 
To think, that after victories so great, 
It should so often prove their hard mishap 
To sneak into a lane, and get — a clap. 
But, hush ! they're here already ; I'll retire, 
And leave 'em to the ladies to admire. 
They'll show you twenty thousand arts and graces, 
They'll entertain you with their soft grimaces, 
Their snuffbox, awkward bows, and — ugly faces. 
In short, they're after all so much your friends, 
That lest the Play should fail, the author ends ; 
They have resolved to make you some amends. 
Between each act (perform'd by nicest rules) 
They'll treat you with — an Interlude of fools : 
Of which that you may have the deeper sense, 
The entertainment's— at their own expense. 



ACT I. 



SCENE \.—A Room in Loveless's Country- 
House. 

Enter Loveless, reading. 

Love. How true is that philosophy, which savs 
Our heaven is seated in our minds ! 
Through all the roving pleasures of my youth, 
(Where nights and days seem all consumed in joy, 
Where the false face of luxury 
Display' d such charms, 



As might have shaken the most holy hermit, 

And made him totter at his altar,) 

I never knew one moment's peace like this. 

Here, in this little soft retreat, 

My thoughts unbent from all the cares of life, 

Content with fortune, 

Eased from the grating duties of dependence, 

From envy free, ambition under foot, 

The raging flame of wild destructive lust 

Reduced to a warm pleasing fire of lawful love, 

My life glides on, and all is well within. 



SCENE 



THE RELAPSE : OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



S03 



Enter Amanda. 

How does the happy cause of my content, 

[Meeting her kindly. 
My dear Amanda ? 

You find me musing on my happy state, 
And full of grateful thoughts to Heaven, and you. 

Aman. Those grateful offerings Heaven can't 
receive 
With more delight than I do : 
Would I could share with it as well 
The dispensations of its bliss ! 
That I might search its choicest favours out, 
And shower 'em on your head for ever. 

Love. The largest boons that Heaven thinks fit 
to grant, 
To things it has decreed shall crawl on earth, 
Are in the gift of woman form'd like you. 
Perhaps when time shall be no more, 
When the aspiring soul shall take its flight, 
And drop this ponderous lump of clay behind it, 
It may have appetites we know not of, 
And pleasures as refined as its desires — 
But till that day of knowledge shall instruct me, 
The utmost blessing that my thought can reach, 

[Taking her in his arms. 
Is folded in my arms, and rooted in my heart. 

Aman. There let it grow for ever ! 

Love. Well said, Amanda — let it be for ever — 
Would Heaven grant that — 

Aman. 'Twere all the heaven I'd ask. 

But we are clad in black mortality, 
And the dark curtain of eternal night 
At last must drop between us. 

Love. It must. 

That mournful separation we must see, 
A bitter pill it is to all ; but doubles its ungrateful 

taste, 
When lovers are to swallow it. 

Aman. Perhaps that pain may only be my lot, 
You possibly may be exempted from it. 
Men find out softer ways to quench their fires. 

Love. Can you then doubt my constancy, 
Amanda ? 
You'll find 'tis built upon a steady basis — 
The rock of reason now supports my love, 
On which it stands so fix'd, 
The rudest hurricane of wild desire 
Would, like the breath of a soft slumbering babe, 
Pass by, and never shake it. 

Aman. Yet still 'tis safer to avoid the storm ; 
The strongest vessels, if they put to sea, 
May possibly be lost. 
Would I could keep you here in this calm port for 

ever ! 
Forgive the weakness of a woman, 
I am uneasy at your going to stay so long in town ; 
I know its false insinuating pleasures ; 
I know the force of its delusions ; 
I know the strength of its attacks ; 
I know the weak defence of nature ; 
I know you are a man — and I — a wife. 

Love. You know then all that needs to give you 
rest, 
For wife's the strongest claim that you can urge. 
When you would plead your title to my heart, 
On this you may depend. Therefore be calm, 
Banish your fears, for they 
Are traitors to your peace : beware of them, 
They are insinuating busy things 



That gossip to and fro, 

And do a world of mischief where they come. 

But you shall soon be mistress of 'em all ; 

I'll aid you with such arms for their destruction, 

They never shall erect their heads again. 

You know the business is indispensable, that obliges 

me to go for London; and you have no reason, 

that I know of, to believe that I'm glad of the 

occasion. For my honest conscience is my witness, 

I have found a due succession of such charms 

In my retirement here with you, 

I have never thrown one roving thought that way. 

But since, against my will, I'm dragg'd once more 

To that uneasy theatre of noise, 

I am resolved to make such use on't, 

As shall convince you 'tis an old cast mistress, 

Who has been so lavish of her favours, 

She's now grown bankrupt of her charms, 

And has not one allurement left to move me. 

Aman. Her bow, I do believe, is grown so weak 
Her arrows (at this distance) cannot hurt you ; 
But in approaching 'em, you give 'em strength. 
The dart that has not far to fly, will put 
The best of armour to a dangerous trial. 

Love. That trial past, and you're at ease for ever ; 
When you have seen the helmet proved, 
You'll apprehend no more for him that wears it. 
Therefore, to put a lasting period to your fears, 
I am resolved, this once, to launch into temptation : 
I'll give you an essay of all my virtues, 
My former boon companions of the bottle 
Shall fairly try what charms are left in wine : 
I'll take my place amongst them, 
They shall hem me in, 

Sing praises to their god, and drink his glory : 
Turn wild enthusiasts for his sake, 
And beasts to do him honour : 
Whilst I, a stubborn atheist, 
Sullenly look on, 

Without one reverend glass to his divinity. 
That for my temperance, 
Then for my constancy — 

Aman. Ay, there take heed. 

Love. Indeed the danger's small. 

Aman. And yet my fears are great. 

Love. Why are you so timorous ? 

Aman. Because you are so bold. 

Love. My courage should disperse your appre- 
hension. 

Aman. My apprehensions should alarm your 
courage. 

Love. Fy, fy, Amanda ! it is not kind thus to 
distrust me. 

Aman. And yet my fears are founded on my 
love. 

Love. Your love then is not founded as it ought ; 
For if you can believe 'tis possible 
I should again relapse to my past follies, 
I must appear to you a thing 
Of such an undigested composition, 
That but to think of me with inclination, 
Would be a weakness in your taste 
Your virtue scarce could answer. 

Aman. 'Twould be a weakness in my tongue ; 
My prudence could not answer, 
If I should press you farther with my fears ; 
I'll therefore trouble you no longer with 'em. 

Love. Nor shall they trouble you much longer, 
A little time shall show you they were groundless : 
This winter shall be the fiery trial of my virtue ; 



304 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



Which, when it once has pass'd, 

You'll be convinced 'twas of no false allay, 

There all your cares will end. 

Aman. Pray Heaven they may. 

[Exeunt, hand in hand. 



SCENE II.— Whitehall. 
Enter Tom Fashion, Lory, and Tug. 

Fash. Come, pay the waterman, and take the 
portmantle. 

Lory. Faith, sir, I think the waterman had as 
good take the portmantle, and pay himself. 

Fash. Why, sure there's something left in't ! 

Lory. But a solitary old waistcoat, upon my 
honour, sir. 

Fash. Why, what's become of the blue coat, 
sirrah ? 

Lory. Sir, 'twas eaten at Gravesend ; the reck- 
oning came to thirty shillings, and your privy purse 
was worth but two half-crowns. 

Fash. Tis very well. 

Tug. Pray, master, will you please to despatch 
me ? 

Fash. Ay, here a — canst thou change me a 
guinea ? 

Lory. [Aside.} Good! 

' Tug. Change a guinea, master ! Ha ! ha ! your 
honour's pleased to compliment. 

Fash. Egad, I don't know how I shall pay thee 
then, for I have nothing but gold about me. 

Lory. [Aside.] Hum, hum ! 

Fash. What dost thou expect, friend ? 

Tug. Why, master, so far against wind and tide 
is richly worth half a piece. 

Fash. Why, faith, I think thou art a good con- 
scionable fellow. Egad, I begin to have so good 
an opinion of thy honesty, I care not if I leave my 
portmantle with thee, till I send thee thy money. 

Tug. Ha ! God bless your honour ; I should be 
as willing to trust you, master, but that you are, as 
a man may say, a stranger to me, and these are 
nimble times ; there are a great many sharpers stir- 
ring. — [Taking up the portmantle.] Well, master, 
when your worship sends the money, your port- 
mantle shall be forthcoming ; my name's Tug, my 
wife keeps a brandy-shop in Drab- Alley, at Wapping. 

Fash. Very well ; I'll send for't to-morrow. 

[Exit Tug. 

Lory. So. — Now, sir, I hope you'll own your- 
self a happy man, you have outlived all your cares. 

Fash. How so, sir? 

Lory. Why you have nothing left to take care of. 

Fash. Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to take 
care of still. 

Lory. Sir, if you could but prevail with some- 
body else to do that for you, I fancy we might both 
fare the better for't. 

Fash. Why, if thou canst tell me where to apply 
myself, I have at present so little money, and so 
much humility about me, I don't know but I may 
follow a fool's advice. 

Lory. Why then, sir, your fool advises you to 
lay aside all animosity, and apply to sir Novelty, 
your elder brother. 

Fash. Damn my elder brother ! 

Lory. With all my heart ; but get him to redeem 
your annuity however. 



Fash. My annuity ! 'Sdeath, he's such a dog, 
he would not give his powder-puff to redeem ray 
soul. 

Lory. Look you, sir, you must wheedle him, or 
you must starve. 

Fash. Look you, sir, I will neither wheedle him, 
nor starve. 

Lory. Why, what will you do then ? 

Fash. I'll go into the army. 

Lory. You can't take the oaths ; you are a 
Jacobite. 

Fash. Thou mayst as well say I can't take orders 
because I'm an atheist. 

Lory. Sir, I ask your pardon ; I find I did not 
know the strength of your conscience so well as I 
did the weakness of your purse. 

Fash. Methinks, sir, a person of your experi- 
ence should have known that the strength of the 
conscience proceeds from the weakness of the 
purse. 

Lory. Sir, I am very glad to find you have a 
conscience able to take care of us, let it proceed 
from what it will ; but I desire you'll please to con- 
sider, that the army alone will be but a scanty 
maintenance for a person of your generosity (at 
least as rents now are paid). I shall see you stand 
in damnable need of some auxiliary guineas for 
your menus plaisirs ; I will therefore turn fool 
once more for your service, and advise you to go 
directly to your brother. 

Fash. Art thou then so impregnable a block- 
head, to believe he'll help me with a farthing ? 

Lory. Not if you treat him de haut en bas, as 
you use to do. 

Fash. Why, how wouldst have me treat him ? 

Lory. Like a trout — tickle him. 

Fash. I can't flatter. 

Lory. Can you starve ? 

Fash. Yes. 

Lory. I can't. — Good-by t'ye, sir — [Going. 

Fash. Stay ; thou wilt distract me ! What 
wouldst thou have me say to him ? 

Lory. Say nothing to him, apply yourself to his 
favourites, speak to his periwig, his cravat, his 
feather, his snuff box, and when you are well with 
them, desire him to lend you a thousand pounds. 
I'll engage you prosper. 

Fash. 'Sdeath and furies ! why was that cox- 
comb thrust into the world before me ? O Fortune ! 
Fortune !— thou art a bitch by Gad ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 



-A Ronm in Lord Foppington's 
House. 



Enter Lord Foppington in his nightgown. 

Lord Fop. Page ! 

Enter Page. 

Page. Sir ! 

Lord Fop. Sir ! — Pray, sir, do me the favour to 
teach your tongue the title the king has thought fit 
to honour me with. 

Page. I ask your lordship's pardon, my lord. 

Lord Fop. O, you can pronounce the word then ? 
1 thought it would have choked you.— D'ye hear ? 

Page. My lord ! 

Lord Fop. Ca-;i La Verole ; I would dress.— 
[Exit Page.] — Well, 'tis an unspeakable pleasure 
to be a man of quality, strike me dumb ! — My lord, 



SCENE III. 



THE RELAPSE: OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



805 



— your lordship ! My lord Foppingron ! — Ah ! c'est 
quelque chose de beau, que le (Liable m'emporte ! — 
Why the ladies were ready to puke at me whilst I 
had nothing but sir Navelty to recommend me to 
'em, — Sure, whilst I was but a knight, I was a very 
nauseous fellow. — Well, 'tis ten thousand pawnd 
well given, stap my vitals ! — 

Enter La Verole. 

La Ver. Me lord, de shoemaker, de tailor, de 
hosier, de semstress, de barber, be all ready, if your 
lordship please to dress. 

Lord Fop. 'Tis well, admit 'em. 

La Ver. Hey, messieurs, entrez. 

Enter Tailor, Shoemaker, Mendlegs, Foretop, and 
Mrs. Calico. 

Lord Fop. So, gentlemen, I hope you have all 
taken pains to show yourselves masters in your 
professions. 

Tailor. I think I may presume to say, sir — 

La Ver. My lord— you clawn, you ! 

Tailor. Why, is he made a lord ? — My lord, I 
ask your lordship's pardon, my lord ; I hope, my 
lord, your lordship will please to own I have 
brought your lordship as accomplished a suit of 
clothes as ever peer of England trod the stage in, 
my lord. Will your lordship please to try 'em 
now ? 

Lord Fop. Ay ; but let my people dispose the 
glasses so that I may see myself before and behind, 
for I love to see myself all raund. 

Whilst he puts on his clothes, Tom Fashion and Lory 
enter and converse apart. 

Fash. Heyday, what the devil have we here ? 
Sure my gentleman's grown a favourite at court, he 
has got so many people at his levee. 

Lory. Sir, these people come in order to make 
him a favourite at court ; they are to establish him 
with the ladies. 

Fash. Good God ! to what an ebb of taste are 
women fallen, that it should be in the power of a 
laced coat to recommend a gallant to 'em ! 

Lory. Sir, tailors and periwig-makers are now 
become the bawds of the nation ; 'tis they debauch 
all the women. 

Fash. Thou sayest true ; for there's that fop 
now has not by nature wherewithal to move a 
cook-maid, and by that time these fellows have 
done with him, egad he shall melt down a coun- 
tess ! — But now for my reception ; I'll engage it 
shall be as cold a one as a courtier's to his friend, 
who comes to put him in mind of his promise. 

Lord Fop. [To his Tailor.] Death and eternal 
tartures ! — Sir, I say the packet's too high by a foot. 

Tailor. My lord, if it had been an inch lower, it 
would not have held your lordship's pocket-hand- 
kerchief. 

Lord Fop. Rat my pocket-handkerchief ! have 
not I a page to carry it ? You may make him a 
packet up to his chin a purpose for it ; but I will 
not have mine come so near my face. 

Tailor. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lord- 
ship's fancy. 

Fash. [ To Lory.] His lordship ! Lory, did 
you observe that ? 

Lory. Yes, sir ; I always thought- 'twould end 
there. Now, I hope, you'll ha^ a little more 
respect for him. 

Fash. Respect ! — Damn him for a coxcomb ! 



now has he ruined his estate to buy a title, that he 
may be a fool of the first rate ; — but let's accost 
him — [To Lord Foppistgton.] Brother. I'mvour 
humble servant. 

Lord Fop. O Lard, Tarn ! I did not expect you 
in England. — Brother, I am glad to see you. — 
[Turning to h is Tailor ] Look you, sir; I shall 
never be reconciled to this nauseous packet ; there- 
fore pray get me another suit, with all manner of 
expedition, for this is my eternal aversion. — Mrs. 
Calico, are not you of my mind ? 

Mrs. Cal. O, directly, my lord ! it can never be 
too low. 

Lord Fop. You are passitively in the right on't, 
for the packet becomes no part of the body but the 
knee. [Exit Tailor. 

Mrs. Cal. I hope your lordship is pleased with 
your steenkirk. 

Lord Fop. In love with it, stap my vitals ! — 
Bring your bill, you shall be paid to-m arrow. 

Mrs. Cal. I humbly thank your honour. [Exit. 

Lord Fop. Hark thee, shoemaker ! these shoes 
an't ugly, but they don't fit me. 

Shoemaker. My lord, my thinks they fit you very 
well. 

Lord Fop. They hurt me just below the instep. 

Shoe. [Feeling his foot.] My lord, they don't 
hurt you there. 

Lord Fop. I tell thee, they pinch me execrably. 

Shoe. My lord, if they pinch you, I'll be bound 
to be hanged, that's all. 

Lord Fop. Why, wilt thou undertake to persuaae 
me I cannot feel ? 

Shoe. Your lordship may please to feel what you 
think fit ; but that shoe does not hurt you — I 
think I understand my trade. 

Lord Fop. Now by all that's great and powerful, 
thou art an incomprehensible coxcomb ! but thou 
makest good shoes, and so I'll bear with thee. 

Shoe. My lord, I have worked for half the people 
of quality in town these twenty years ; and 'twere 
very hard I should not know when a shoe hurts, 
and when it don't. 

Lord Fop. Well, prithee be gone about thy 
business. — [Exit Shoemaker.] Mr. Mendlegs, a 
word with you : the calves of these stockings are 
thickened a little too much. They make my legs 
look like a chairman's — 

Mend. My lord, my thinks they look mighty well. 

Lord Fop. Ay, but you are not so good a judge 
of those things as I am, I have studied 'em all my 
life ; therefore pray let the next be the thickness 
of a crawn-piece less. — [Aside.] If the town takes 
notice my legs are fallen away, 'twill be attributed 
to the violence of some new intrigue. — [Exit 
Mendlegs.] Come, Mr. Foretop, let me see what 
you have done, and then the fatigue of the morning 
will be over. 

Fore. My lord, I have done what I defy any 
prince in Europe to outdo ; I have made you a 
periwig so long, and so full of hair, it will serve 
you for a hat and cloak in all weathers. 

Lord Fop. Then thou hast made me thy friend 
to eternity. Come, comb it out. 

Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Well, Lory, what dost 
think on't ? A very friendly reception from a 
brother after three years' absence ! 

1 ory. Why, sir, 'tis your own fault ; we seldom 
care for those that don't love what we love : if 
you would creep into his heart, you must enter 
X 



80S 



THE RELAPSE : OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



into his pleasures. — Here you have stood ever 
since you came in, and have not commended any 
one thing that belongs to him. 

Fash. Nor never shall, while they belong to a 
coxcomb. 

Lory. Then, sir, you must be content to pick a 
hungry bone. 

Fash. No, sir, I'll crack it, and get to the 
marrow before I have done. 

Lord Fop. Gad's curse, Mr. Foretop ! you don't 
intend to put this upon me for a full periwig ? 

Fore. Not a full one, my lord ? I don't know 
what your lordship may please to call a full 
one, but I have crammed twenty ounces of hair 
into it. 

Lord Fop. What it may be by weight, sir, I 
shall not dispute ; but by tale, there are not nine 
hairs of a side. 

Fore. O lord ! O lord ! lord ! Why, as Gad 
shall judge me, your honour's side-face is reduced 
to the tip of your nose ! 

Lord Fop. My side-face may be in an eclipse 
for aught I know ; but I'm sure my full-face is 
like the full-moon. 

Fore. Heaven bless my eye-sight — [Rubbing 
his eyes.] Sure I look through the wrong end of 
the perspective ; for by my faith, an't please your 
honour, the broadest place I see in your face does 
not seem to me to be two inches diameter. 

Lord Fop. If it did it would just be two inches 
too broad ; for a periwig to a man should be like 
a mask to a woman, nothing should be seen but 
his eyes. 

Fore. My lord, I have done ; if you please to 
have more hair in your wig, I'll put it in. 

Lord Fop. Passitively, yes. 

Fore. Shall I take it back now, my lord ? 

Lord Fop. No : I'll wear it to-day, though it 
show such a manstrous pair of cheeks, stap my 
vitals, I shall be taken for a trumpeter ! 

[Exit Foretop. 

Fash. Now your people of business are gone, 
brother, I hope I may obtain a quarter of an hour's 
audience of you. 

Lord Fop. Faith, Tarn, I must beg you'll ex- 
cuse me at this time, for I must away to the House 
of Lards immediately ; my lady Teaser's case is to 
come on to-day, and I would not be absent for 
the salvation of mankind. — Hey, page ! 

Enter Page. 

Is the coach at the door ? 

Page. Yes, my lord. 

Lord Fop. You'll excuse me, brother. [Going. 

Fash. Shall you be back at dinner? 

Lord Fop. As Gad shall jidge me, I can't tell ; 
for 'tis passible I may dine with some of aur House 
at Lacket's. 

Fash. Shall I meet you there ? For I must needs 
talk with you. 

Lord Fop. That I'm afraid mayn't be so praper ; 
far the lards I commonly eat with, are people of 
a nice conversation ; and you know, Tam, your 
education has been a little at large : but, if you'll 
stay here, you'll find a family dinner. — [To Page.] 
Hey, fellow ! What is there for dinner ? There's 
beef : I suppose my brother will eat beef. — Dear 
Tam, I'm glad to see thee in England, stap my 
vitals ! [Exit with La Verole and Page. 

.Fash. Hell and furies ! is this to be borne ? 



Lory. Faith, sir, I could almost have given him 
a knock o'th' pate myself. 

Fash. 'Tis enough ; I will now show thee the 
excess of my passion by being very calm. Come, 
Lory, lay your loggerhead to mine, and in cool 
blood let us contrive his destruction. 

Lory. Here comes a head, sir, would contrive it 
better than us both, if he would but join in the 
confederacy. 

Enter Coupler. 
Fash. By this light, old Coupler alive still ! — 
Why, how now, matchmaker, art thou here still to 
plague the world with matrimony ? You old bawd, 
how have you the impudence to be hobbling out of 
your grave twenty years after you are rotten ! 

Coup. When you begin to rot, sirrah, you'll go 
off like a pippin ; one winter will send you to the 
devil. What mischief brings you home again ? 
Ha ! you young lascivious rogue you. Let me put 
my hand into your bosom, sirrah. 

Fash. Stand off, old Sodom ! 

Coup. Nay, prithee now, don't be so coy. 

Fash. Keep your hands to yourself, you old dog 
you, or I'll wring your nose off. 

Coup. Hast thou then been a year in Italy, and 
brought home a fool at last ? By my conscience, 
the young fellows of this age profit no more by 
their going abroad than they do by their going to 
church. Sirrah, sirrah, if you are not hanged 
before you come to my years, — you'll know a cock 
from a hen. But, come, I'm still a friend to thy 
person, though I have a contempt of thy under- 
standing ; and therefore I would willingly know 
thy condition, that I may see whether thou standest 
in need of my assistance : for widows swarm, my 
boy, the town's infected with 'em. 

Fash. I stand in need of anybody's assistance, 
that will help me to cut my elder brother's throat, 
without the risk of being hanged for him. 

Coup. Egad, sirrah, I could help thee to do him 
almost as good a turn, without the danger of being 
burned in the hand for't. 

Fash. Sayest thou so, old Satan ? Show me but 
that, and my soul is thine. 

Coup. Pox o'thy soul ! give me thy warm body, 
sirrah ; I shall. have a substantial title to't when I 
tell thee my project. 

Fash. Out with it then, dear dad, and take 
possession as soon as thou wilt. 

Coup. Sayest thou so, my Hephestion ? Why, 
then, thus lies the scene — But hold ; who's that ? 
if we are heard we are undone. 

Fash. What, have you forgot, Lory ? 

Coup. Who, trusty Lory, is it thee ? 

Lory. At your service, sir. 

Coup. Give me thy hand, old boy. Egad, I did 
not know thee again ; but I remember thy honesty 
though I did not thy face ; I think thou hadst like 
to have been hanged once or twice for thy master. 

Lory. Sir, I was very near once having that 
honour. 

Coup. Well, live and hope; don't be discou- 
raged; eat with him, and drink with him, and 
do what he bids thee, and it may be thy reward at 
last, as well as another's.— [To Tom Fashion.] 
Well, sir, you must know I have done you the 
kindness to' make up a match for your brother. 

Fash. Sir, I am very much beholden to you truly ! 

Coup. You may be, sirrah, before the wedding- 
day yet. The lady is a great heiress; fifteen 



SCENE I. 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



307 



hundred pound a year, and a great bag of money ; 
the match is concluded, the writings are drawn, and 
the pipkin's to be cracked in a fortnight. Now you 
must know, stripling (with respect to your mother), 
your brother's the son of a whore. 

Fash. Good! 

Coup. He has given me a bond of a thou- 
sand pounds for helping him to this fortune, and 
has promised me as much more in ready money 
upon the day of marriage, which, I understand by 
a friend, he ne'er designs to pay me. If therefore 
you will be a generous young dog, and secure me 
five thousand pounds, I'll be a covetous old rogue, 
and help you to the lady. 

Fash. Egad, if thou canst bring this about, I'll 
have thy statue cast in brass. But don't you dote, 
you old pander you, when you talk at this rate ? 

Coup. That your youthful parts shall judge 
of. This plump partridge, that I tell you of, lives 
in the country, fifty miles off, with her honoured 
parents, in a "lonely old house which nobody comes 
near ; she never goes abroad, nor sees company at 
home. To prevent all misfortunes, she has her 
breeding within doors ; the parson of the parish 
teaches her to play on the bass-viol, the clerk to 
sing, her nurse to dress, and her father to dance. 
In short, nobody can give you admittance there but 
I ; nor can I do it any other way than by making 
you pass for your brother. 

Fash. And how the devil wilt thou do that ? 

Coup. Without the devil's aid, I warrant thee. 
Thy brother's face not one of the family ever 
saw, the whole business has been managed by me, 
and all the letters go through my hands. The 
last that was writ to Sir Tunbelly Clumsey (for 
that's the old gentleman's name), was to tell 
him, his lordship would be down in a fortnight to 
consummate. Now, you shall go away imme- 
diately, pretend you writ that letter only to have 
the romantic pleasure of surprising your mistress ; 
fall desperately in love, as soon as you see her ; 
make that your plea for marrying her immediately, 
and, when the fatigue of the wedding-night's over, 
you shall send me a swinging purse of gold, you 
dog you. 

Fash. Egad, old dad, I'll put my hand in thy 
bosom now. 

Coup. Ah, you young hot lusty thief, let me 
muzzle you ! — [Kisses him.'] Sirrah, let me muz- 
zle you. 

Fash. {Aside.'] Psha, the old lecher ! 

Coup. Well ; I'll warrant thou hast not a far- 



thing of money in thy pocket now ; no, one may 
see it in thy face. 

Fash. Not a souse, by Jupiter! 

Coup. Must I advance then ? — Well, sirrah, be 
at my lodgings in half an hour, and I'll see what 
may be done ; we'll sign, and seal, and eat a pul- 
let, and when I have given thee some farther 
instructions, thou shalt hoist sail and be gone. — 
[Kisses him.] T'other buss, and so adieu. 

Fash. Um ! psha ! 

Coup. Ah, you young warm dog you, what a 
delicious night will the bride have on't ! [Exit. 

Fash. So, Lory ; Providence, thou seest at last, 
takes care of men of merit : we are in a fair way 
to be great people. 

Lory. Ay, sir, if the devil don't step between the 
cup and the lip, as he uses to do. 

Fash. Why, faith, he has played me many a 
damned trick to spoil my fortune, and egad I'm 
almost afraid he's at work about it again now ; but 
if I should tell thee how, thou'dst wonder at me. 

Lory. Indeed, sir, I should not. 

Fash. How dost know ? 

Lory. Because, sir, I have wondered at you so 
often, I can wonder at you no more. 

Fash. No ! what wouldst thou say if a qualm of 
conscience should spoil my design ? 

Lory. I would eat my words, and wonder more 
than ever. 

Fash. Why, faith, Lory, though I am a young 
rake-hell, and have played many a roguish trick ; 
this is so full-grown a cheat, I find I must take 
pains to come up to't, I have scruples — 

Lory. They are strong symptoms of death ; if 
you find they increase, pray, sir, make your will. 

Fash. No, my conscience shan't starve me nei- 
ther. But thus far I'll hearken to it ; before I 
execute this project, I'll try my brother to the 
bottom, I'll speak to him with the temper of a 
philosopher ; my reasons (though they press him 
home) shall yet be clothed with so much modesty, 
not one of all the truths they urge shall be so naked 
to offend his sight. If he has yet so much humanity 
about him as to assist me (though with a moderate 
aid), I'll drop my project at his feet, and show him 
how I can do for him much more than what I ask 
he'd do for me. This one conclusive trial of him 
I resolve to make — 

Succeed or no, still victory's my lot ; 

If I subdue his heart, 'tis well ; if not, 

I shall subdue my conscience to my plot. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Loveless's Town- 
House. 

Enter Loveless and Amanda. 

Love. How do you like these lodgings, my dear ? 
For my part, I am so well pleased with them, I 
shall hardly remove whilst we stay in town, if you 
are satisfied. 

Aman. I am satisfied with everything that 
pleases you, else I had not come to town at all. 

Love. Oh ! a little of the noise and bustle of the 
world sweetens the pleasures of retreat. We shall 



find the charms of our retirement doubled, when 
we return to it. 

Aman. That pleasing prospect will be my chief- 
est entertainment, whilst (much against my will) I 
am obliged to stand surrounded with these empty 
pleasures, which 'tis so much the fashion to be fond 
of. 

Love. I own most of them are indeed but empty; 
nay, so empty, that one would wonder by what 
magic power they act, when they induce us to be 
vicious for their sakes. Yet some there are we 
may speak kindlier of. There are delights (of 

X 2 



308 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



which a private life is destitute) which may divert 
an honest man, and be a harmless entertainment 
to a virtuous woman. The conversation of the 
town is one; and truly (with some small allowances), 
the plays, I think, may be esteemed another. 

Aman. The plays, I must confess, have some 
small charms ; and would have more, would they 
restrain that loose obscene encouragement to vice, 
which shocks, if not the virtue of some women, at 
least the modesty of all. 

Love. But till that reformation can be made, 
I would not leave the wholesome corn for some 
intruding tares that grow amongst us. Doubtless 
the moral of a well-wrought scene is of prevailing 
force. — Last night there happened one that moved 
me strangely. 

Aman. Pray, what was that ? 
Love. Why 'twas about — but 'tis not worth re- 
peating. 

Aman. Yes, pray let me know it. 
Love. No ; I think 'tis as well let alone. 
Aman. Nay, now you make me have a mind to 
know. 

Love. 'Twas a foolish thing. You'd perhaps 
grow jealous should I tell it you, though without a 
cause, Heaven knows. 

Aman. I shall begin to think I have cause, if 
you persist in making it a secret. 

Love. I'll then convince you you have none, by 
making it no longer so. Know then, I happened 
in the play to find my very character, only with 
the addition of a relapse ; which struck me so, I 
put a sudden stop to a most harmless entertain- 
ment, which till then diverted me between the acts. 
'Twas to admire the workmanship of nature, in the 
face of a young lady that sat some distance from 
me, she was so exquisitely handsome ! — 
Aman. So exquisitely handsome ! 
Love. Why do you repeat my words, my dear ? 
Aman. Because you seemed to speak them with 
such pleasure, I thought I might oblige you with 
their echo. 

Love. Then you are alarmed, Amanda ? 
Aman. It is my duty to be so, when you are in 
danger. 

Love. You are too quick in apprehending for 
me ; all will be well when you have heard me out. 
I do confess I gazed upon her, nay, eagerly I gazed 
upon her. 

Aman. Eagerly ! that's with desire. 
Love. No, I desired her not : I viewed her 
with a world of admiration, but not one glance 
of love. 

Aman. Take heed of trusting to such nice dis- 
tinctions. 

Love. I did take heed ; for observing in the play, 
that he who seemed to represent me there was, by 
an accident like this, unwarily surprised into a net, 
in which he lay a poor entangled slave, and brought 
a train of mischiefs on his head, I snatched my eyes 
away ; they pleaded hard for leave to look again, 
but I grew absolute, and they obeyed. 

Aman. Were they the only things that were in- 
quisitive ? Had I been in your place, my tongue, 
I fancy, had been curious too ; I should have asked 
her name, and where she lived (yet still without 
design :) — Who was she, pray ? 
Love. Indeed I cannot tell. 
Aman. You will not teli. 
Love. By all that's sacred then, I did not ask. 



Aman. Nor do you know what company was 
with her? 

Love. I do not. 
Aman. Then I am calm again. 
Love. Why were you disturbed ? 
Aman. Had I then no cause ? 
Love. None, certainly. 
Aman. I thought I had. 

Love. But you thought wrong, Amanda : for 
turn the case, and let it be your story ; should you 
come home, and tell me you had seen a handsome 
man, should I grow jealous because you had eyes ? 
Aman. But should I tell you he were exquisitely 
so ; that I had gazed on him with admiration ; that 
I had looked with eager eyes upon him ; should 
you not think 'twere possible I might go one step 
further, and inquire his name ? 

Love. [Aside.] She has reason on her side, I 
have talked too much ; but I must turn it off an- 
other way. — {Aloud.'] Will you then make no 
difference, Amanda, between the language of our 
sex and yours ? There is a modesty restrains your 
tongues, which makes you speak by halves when you 
commend; but roving flattery gives a loose to ours, 
which makes us still speak double what we think. 
You should not, therefore, in so strict a sense, take 
what I said to her advantage. 

Aman. Those flights of flattery, sir, are to our 
faces only : when women once are out of hearing, 
you are as modest in your commendations as we 
are. But I shan't put you to the trouble of farther 
excuses, if you please this business shall rest here. 
Only give me leave to wish, both for your peace 
and mine, that you may never meet this miracle of 
beauty more. 

Love. I am content. 

Enter Servant. 
Ser. Madam, there's a young lady at the door 
in a chair, desires to know whether your ladyship 
sees company. I think her name is Berinthia. 

Aman. O dear ! 'tis a relation I have not seen 
this five years. Pray her to walk in. — {Exit Ser- 
vant.] Here's another beauty for you. She was 
young when I saw her last ; but I hear she's 
grown extremely handsome. 

Love. Don't you be jealous now ; for I shall 
gaze upon her too. 

Enter Beiunthia. 
— Ha ! by Heavens the very woman ! {Aside. 

Ber. [Saluting Amanda.] Dear Amanda, I did 
not expect to meet with you in town. 

Aman. Sweet cousin, I'm overjoyed to see you. 
— Mr. Loveless, here's a relation and a friend of 
mine, I desire you'll be better acquainted with. 

Love. [Saluting Berinthia] If my wife never 
desires a harder thing, madam, her request will be 
easily granted. 

Ber. I think, madam, I ought to wish you joy. 
Aman. Joy ! Upon what ? 
Ber. Upon your marriage : you were a widow 
when I saw you last. 

Love. You ought rather, madam, to wish me 
joy upon that, since I am the only gainer. 

Ber. If she has got so good a husband as the 
world reports, she has gained enough to expect the 
compliments of her friends upon it. 

Love. If the world is so favourable to me, to 
allow I deserve that title, I hope 'tis so just to my 
wife to own I derive it from her. 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



309 



Ber. Sir, it is so just to you both, to own you 
are (and deserve to be) the happiest pair that 
live in it. 

Love. I'm afraid we shall lose that character, 
madam, whenever you happen to change your 
condition. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Ser. Sir, my lord Foppington presents his hum- 
ble service to you, and desires to know how you 
do. He but just now heard you were in town. 
He's at the next door ; and if it be not inconve- 
nient, he'll come and wait upon you. 

Love. Lord Foppington ! — I know him not. 

Ber. Not his dignity, perhaps, but you do his 
person. 'Tis sir Novelty ; he has bought a barony, 
in order to marry a great fortune. His patent has 
not been passed above eight-and-forty hours, and 
he has already sent how-do-ye's to all the town, 
to make 'em acquainted with his title. 

Love. Give my service to his lordship, and let 
him know I am proud of the honour he intends 
me. — [Exit Servant.] Sure this addition of qua- 
lity must have so improved his coxcomb, he can't 
but be very good company for a quarter of an hour. 

Aman. Now it moves my pity more than my 
mirth, to see a man whom nature has made no fool, 
be so very industrious to pass for an ass. 

Love. No, there you are wrong, Amanda ; you 
should never bestow your pity upon those who 
take pains for your contempt. Pity those whom 
nature abuses, but never those who abuse nature. 

Ber. Besides, the town would be robbed of one 
of its chiefest diversions, if it should become a 
crime to laugh at a fool. 

Aman. I could never yet perceive the town 
inclined to part with any of its diversions, for the 
sake of their being crimes ; but I have seen it very 
fond of some I think had little else to recom- 
mend 'em. 

Ber. I doubt, Amanda, you are grown its 
enemy, you speak with so much warmth against it. 

Aman. I must confess I am not much its friend. 

Ber. Then give me leave to make you mine, by 
not engaging in its quarrel. 

Aman. You have many stronger claims than 
that, Berinthia, whenever you think fit to plead 
your title. 

Love. You have done well to engage a second, 
my dear ; for here comes one will be apt to call 
you to an account for your country principles. 

Enter Lord Foppington. 

Lord Fop. Sir, I am your most humble servant. 

Liove. I wish you joy, my lord. 

Lord Fop. O Lard, sir! — Madam, your lady- 
ship's welcome to tawn. 

Aman. I wish your lordship joy. 

Lord Fop. O Heavens, madam — 

Love. My lord, this young lady is a relation of 
my wife's. 

Lord Fop. [Saluting Berinthia.] The beau- 
tifullest race of people upon earth, rat me ! Dear 
Loveless, I am overjoyed to see you have brought 
your family to tawn again ; I am, stap my vitals ! 
[Aside.] For I design to lie with your wife. — 
[To Amanda.] Far Gad's sake, madam, haw has 
your ladyship been able to subsist thus long, under 
the fatigue of a country life ? 

Aman. My life has been very far from that, my 
lord ; it has been a very quiet one. 



Lord Fop. Why, that's the fatigue I speak of, 
madam. For 'tis impassible to be quiet without 
thinking ; now thinking is to me the greatest 
fatigue in the world. 

Aman. Does not your lordship love reading then ? 

Lord Fop. Oh, passionately, madam But I 

never think of what I read. 

Ber. Why, can your loraship read without 
thinking ? 

Lord Fop. O Lard ! — can your ladyship pray 
without devotion, madam ? 

Aman. Well, I must own I think books the best 
entertainment in the world. 

Lord Fop. I am so much of your ladyship's 
mind, madam, that I have a private gallery, where 
I walk sometimes, is furnished with nothing but 
books and looking-glasses. Madam, I have gilded 
'em, and ranged 'em, so prettily, before Gad, it is 
the most entertaining thing in the world to walk 
and look upon 'em. 

Aman. Nay, I love a neat library too ; but 'tis, 
I think, the inside of a book should recommend it 
most to us. 

LiOrd Fop. That, I must confess, I am not 
altogether so fand of. Far to mind the inside of a 
book, is to entertain one's self with the forced pro- 
duct of another man's brain. Naw I think a man of 
quality and breeding may be much better diverted 
with the natural sprauts of his own. But to say the 
truth, madam, let a man love reading never so well, 
when once he comes to know this tawn, he finds so 
many better ways of passing away the four-and- 
twenty hours, that 'twere ten thousand pities he 
should consume his time in that. Far example, 
madam, my life ; my life, madam, is a perpetual 
stream of pleasure, that glides through such a 
variety of entertainments, I believe the wisest of 
our ancestors never had the least conception of any 
of 'em. I rise, madam, about ten a-clack. I don't 
rise sooner, because 'tis the worst thing in the 
world for the complexion ; nat that I pretend to be 
a beau ; but a man must endeavour to look whole- 
some, lest he make so nauseous a figure in the side- 
bax, the ladies should be compelled to turn their 
eyes upon the play. So at ten a-clack, I say, I 
rise. Naw, if I find it a good day, I resalve to 
take a turn in the Park, and see the fine women ; 
so huddle on my clothes, and get dressed by one. 
If it be nasty weather, I take a turn in the choco- 
late-hause : where as you walk, madam, you have 
the prettiest prospect in the world ; you have look- 
ing-glasses all round you. — But I'm afraid I tire 
the company. 

Ber. Not at all. Pray go on. 

Lord Fop. Why then, ladies, from thence I go 
to dinner at Lacket's, where you are so nicely 
and delicately served, that, stap my vitals ! they 
shall compose you a dish no bigger than a saucer, 
shall come to fifty shillings. Between eating my 
dinner (and washing my mouth, ladies) I spend my 
time, till I go to the play ; where, till nine a-clack, 
I entertain myself with looking upon the company; 
and usually dispose of one hour more in leading 
them aut. So there's twelve of the four-and- 
twenty pretty well over. The other twelve, madam, 
are disposed of in two articles : in the first four I 
toast myself drunk, and in t'other eight I sleep 
myself sober again. Thus, ladies, you see my life 
is an eternal raund O of delights. 

Love. 'Tis a heavenly one, indeed. 



310 



THE RELAPSE : OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



Aman. But I thought, my lord, you beaux spent 
a great deal of your time in intrigues : you have 
given us no account of 'em yet. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] Soh ; she would inquire 
into my amours — That's jealousy : — she begins to 
be in love with me. — [ To Amanda] Why, madam, 
as to time for my intrigues, I usually make detach- 
ments of it from my other pleasures, according to 
the exigency. Far your ladyship may please to 
take notice, that those who intrigue with women of 
quality, have rarely occasion for above half an hour 
at a time : people of that rank being under those 
decorums, they can seldom give you a langer view 
than will just serve to shoot 'em flying. So that 
the course of my other pleasures is not very much 
interrupted by my amours. 

Love. But your lordship is now become a pillar 
of the state ; you must attend the weighty affairs 
of the nation. 

Lord Fop. Sir, — as to weighty affairs — I leave 
them to weighty heads. I never intend mine shall 
be a burden to my body. 

Love. O but you'll find the house will expect 
your attendance. 

Lord Fop. Sir, you'll find the house will com- 
pound for my appearance. 

Love. But your friends will take it ill if you 
don't attend their particular causes. 

Lord Fop. Not, sir, if I come time enough to 
give 'em my particular vote. 

Ber. But pray, my lord, how do you dispose of 
yourself on Sundays ? for that, methinks, should 
hang wretchedly on your hands. 

Lord Fop. Why faith, madam — Sunday — is a 
vile day, I must confess. I intend to move for 
leave to bring in a bill, that players may work upon 
it, as well as the hackney coaches. Though this I 
must say for the government, it leaves us the 
churches to entertain us. — But then again, they 
begin so abominable early, a man must rise by 
candle-light to get dressed by the psalm. 

Ber. Pray which church does your lordship most 
oblige with your presence ? 

Lord Fop. Oh, St. James's, madam : — there's 
much the best company. 

Aman. Is there good preaching too ? 

Lord Fop. Why faith, madam — I can't tell. A 
man must have very little to do there that can give 
an account of the sermon. 

Ber. You can give us an account of the ladies 
at least. 

Lord Fop. Or I deserve to be excommunicated. 
— There is my lady Tattle, my lady Prate, my lady 
Titter, my lady Leer, my lady Giggle, and my lady 
Grin. These sit in the front of the boxes, and all 
church-time are the prettiest company in the world, 
stap my vitals ! — [To Amanda.] Mayn't we hope 
for the honour to see your ladyship added to our 
society, madam ? 

Aman. Alas, my lord ! I am the worst company 
in the world at church : I'm apt to mind the 
prayers, or the sermon, or — 

Lord Fop. One is indeed strangely apt at church 
to mind what one should not do. But I hope, 
madam, at one time or other, I shall have the 
honour to lead your ladyship to your coach there. — 
[Aside.] Methinks she seems strangely pleased 
with everything I say to her. — 'Tis a vast pleasure 
to receive encouragement from a woman before her 
husband's face. — I have a good mind to pursue my 



conquest, and speak the thing plainly to her at once, 
Egad I'll do't, and that in so cavalier a manner, 
she shall be surprised at it. — [Aloud.] Ladies, I'll 
take my leave ; I'm afraid I begin to grow trouble- 
some with the length of my visit. 

Aman. Your lordship's too entertaining to grow 
troublesome anywhere. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] That now was as much as if 
she had said — pray lie with me. I'll let her see I'm 
quick of apprehension. — [To Amanda.] O Lard, 
madam ! I had like to have forgot a secret, I must 
needs tell your ladyship. — [To Loveless.] Ned, 
you must not be so jealous now as to listen. 

Love. Not I, my lord ; I'm too fashionable a 
husband to pry into the secrets of my wife. 

Lord Fop. [ To Amanda, squeezing her hand. ] 
I am in love with you to desperation, strike me 
speechless ! 

Aman. [Giving him a box on the ear.] Then, 
thus I return your passion. — An impudent fool ! 

Lord Fop. Gads curse, madam, I'm a peer of the 
realm ! 

Love. Hey ; what the devil do you affront my 
wife, sir ? Nay then — 

[They draw and fight. The ladies run shrieking 
for help. 

Aman. Ah ! What has my folly done ! Help ! 
murder ! help ! part 'em for Heaven's sake. 

Lord Fop. [Falling back, and leaning upon his 
sword.] Ah — quite through the body ! — stap my 
vitals ! 

Enter Servants. 

Love. [Running to him.] I hope I han't killed the 
fool however. — Bear him up — Where's your wound? 

Lord Fop. Just through the guts. 

Love. Call a surgeon there. — Unbutton him 
quickly. 

Lord Fop. Ay, pray make haste. [Exit Servant. 

Love. This mischief you may thank yourself for. 

Lord Fop. I may so — love's the devil indeed, 
Ned. 

Re-enter Servant with Syringe. 

Ser. Here's Mr. Syringe, sir, was just going by 
the door. 

Lord Fop. He's the welcomest man alive. 

Syr. Stand by, stand ' by, stand by ! Pray, 
gentlemen, stand by. Lord have mercy upon us ! 
did you never see a man run through the body 
before ? pray, stand by. 

Lord Fop. Ah, Mr. Syringe — I'm a dead man ! 

Syr. A dead man and I by ! — I should laugh to 
see that, egad! 

Love. Prithee don't stand prating, but look upon 
his wound. 

Syr. Why, what if I won't look upon his wound 
this hour, sir ? 

Love. Why then he'll bleed to death, sir. 

Syr. Why, then I'll fetch him to life again, sir. 

Love. 'Slife, he's run through the guts, I tell 
thee. 

Syr. Would he were run through the heart, I 
should get the more credit by his cure. Now I 
hope you are satisfied ? — Come, now let me come 
at him ; now let me come at him. — [Viewing his 
wound.] Oons, what a gash is here ! — Why, sir, a 
man may drive a coach and six horses into your 
body 

Lord Fop. Ho ! 

Syr. Why, what the devil, have you run the 



THE RELAPSE : OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



311 



gentleman through with a scythe ? — [Aside.'] A 
little prick between the skin and the ribs, that's all. 

Love. Let me see his wound. 

Syr. Then you shall dress it, sir ; for if anybody 
looks upon it, I won't. 

Love. Why, thou art the veriest coxcomb I ever 
saw. 

Syr. Sir, I am not master of my trade for 
nothing. 

Lord Fop. Surgeon ! 

Syr. Well, sir. 

Lord Fop. Is there any hopes ? 

Syr. Hopes ! — I can't tell — What are you will- 
ing to give for your cure ? 

Lord Fop. Five hundred paunds with pleasure. 

Syr. Why then perhaps there may be hopes. 
But we must avoid further delay. — Here ; help the 
gentleman into a chair, and carry him to my house 
presently, that's the properest place — [Aside] to 
bubble him out of his money. — [Aloud.] Come, a 
chair, a chair quickly — there, in with him. 

[They put Mm into a chair. 

Lord Fop. Dear Loveless — adieu ! If I die — I 
forgive thee ; and if I live — I hope thou wilt do as 
much by me. I am very sorry you and I should 
quarrel ; but I hope here's an end on't, for if you 
are satisfied — I am. 

Love. I shall hardly think it worth my prosecut- 
ing any further, so you may be at rest, sir. 

Lord Fop. Thou art a generous fellow, strike 
me dumb ! — [Aside.] But thou hast an impertinent 
wife, stap my vitals ! 

Syr. So, carry him off ! carry him off ! we shall 
have him prate himself into a fever by-and-by ; 
carry him off. [Exit with Lord Foppington. 

Aman. Now on my knees, my dear, let me ask 
your pardon for my indiscretion, my own I never 
shall obtain. 

Love. Oh, there's no harm done : you served 
him well. 

Aman. He did indeed deserve it. But I trem- 
ble to think how dear my indiscreet resentment 
might have cost you. 

Love. Oh, no matter, never trouble yourself 
about that. 

Ber. For Heaven's sake, what was't he did to 
you ? 

Aman. O nothing ; he only squeezed me kindly 
by the hand, and frankly offered me a coxcomb's 
heart. I know I was to blame to resent it as I did, 
since nothing but a quarrel could ensue. But the 
fool so surprised me with his insolence, I was not 
mistress of my fingers. 

Ber. Now, I dare swear, he thinks you had 'em 
at great command, they obeyed you so readily. 

Enter Worthy. 

Wor. Save you, save you, good people : I'm 
glad to find you all alive ; I met a wounded peer 
carrying off. For Heaven's sake, what was the 
matter. 

Love. Oh, a trifle ! He would have lain with 
my wife before my face, so she obliged him with a 
box o'th' ear, and I run him through the body : 
that was all. 

Wor. Bagatelle on all sides. But, pray madam, 
how long has this noble lord been a humble servant 
of yours ? 

Aman. This is the first I have heard on't. So, 
I suppose, 'tis his quality more than his love has 



brought him into this adventure. He thinks his 
title an authentic passport to every woman's heart 
below the degree of a peeress. 

Wor. He's coxcomb enough to think anything. 
But I would not have you brought into trouble for 
him : I hope there's no danger of his life ? 

Love. None at all. He's fallen into the hands 
of a roguish surgeon, who I perceive designs to 
frighten a little money out of him. But I saw his 
wound, 'tis nothing ; he may go to the play to-night, 
if he pleases. 

Wor. I am glad you have corrected him with- 
out farther mischief. And now, sir, if these ladies 
have no farther service for you, you'll oblige me if 
you can go to the place I spoke to you of t'other 
day. 

Love. With all my heart. — [Aside.] Though I 
could wish, methinks, to stay and gaze a little 
longer on that creature. Good gods, how beau- 
tiful she is ! — But what have I to do with beauty ? 
I have already had my portion, and must not covet 
more. — [Aloud.] Come, sir, when you please. 

Wor. Ladies, your servant. 

Aman. Mr. Loveless, pray one word with you 
before you go. 

Love. [To Worthy.] I'll overtake you, sir. — 
[Exit Worthy.] What would my dear ? 

Aman. Only a woman's foolish question, — how 
do you like my cousin here ? 

Love. Jealous already, Amanda ? 

Aman. Not at all, I ask you for another reason. 

Love. [Aside.] Whate'er her reason be, I must 
not tell her true. — [ To Amanda.] Wby, I confess 
she's handsome. But you must not think I slight 
your kinswoman, if I own to you, of all the women 
who may claim that character, she is the last would 
triumph in my heart. 

Aman. I'm satisfied. 

Love. Now tell me why you asked ? 

Aman. At night I will. Adieu. 

Love. I'm yours. [Kisses her and exit. 

Aman. [Aside.] I'm glad to find he does not 
like her ; for I have a great mind to persuade her 
to come and live with me. — [Aloud.] Now, dear 
Berinthia, let me inquire a little into your affairs : 
for I do assure you I am enough your friend to 
interest myself in everything that concerns you. 

Ber. You formerly have given me such proofs 
on't I should be very much to blame to doubt it ; 
I am sorry I have no secrets to trust you with, that 
I might convince you how entire a confidence I 
durst repose in you. 

Aman. Why, is it possible that one so young 
and beautiful as you should live and have no 
secrets. 

Ber. What secrets do you mean ? 

Aman. Lovers. 

Ber. Oh, twenty ! but not one secret one amongst 
'em. Lovers in this age have too much honour to 
do anything underhand ; they do all aboveboard. 

Aman. That now, methinks, would make me 
hate a man. 

Ber. But the women of the town are of another 
mind : for by this means a lady may (with the 
expense of a few coquette glances) lead twenty fools 
about in a string for two or three years together. 
Whereas, if she should allow 'em greater favours, 
and oblige 'em to secrecy, she would not keep one 
of 'em a fortnight. 

Aman. There's something indeed in that to 



312 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



satisfy the vanity of a woman, but I can't compre- 
hend how the men find their account in it. 

Ber. Their entertainment, I must confess, is a 
riddle to me. For there's very few of them ever 
get farther than a bow and an ogle. I have half a 
score for my share, who follow me all over the 
town ; and at the play, the Park, and the church, 
do (with their eyes) say the violentest things to 
me. — But 1 never hear any more of 'em. 

Aman. What can be the reason of that ? 

Ber. One reason is, they don't know how to go 
farther. They have had so little practice, they don't 
understand the trade. But, besides their igno- 
rance, you must know there is not one of my half 
score lovers but what follows half a score mistresses. 
Now, their affections being divided amongst so 
many, are not strong enough for any one to make 
'em pursue her to the purpose. Like a young 
puppy in a warren, they have a flirt at all, and 
catch none. 

Aman. Yet they seem to have a torrent of love 
to dispose of. 

Ber. They have so. But 'tis like the river of a 
modern philosopher, (whose works, though a 
woman, I have read,) it sets out with a violent 
stream, splits in a thousand branches, and is all 
lost in the sands. 

Aman. But do you think this river of love runs 
all its course without doing any mischief? Do 
you think it overflows nothing ? 

Ber. O yes ; 'tis true, it never breaks into any- 
body's ground that has the least fence about it ; 
but it overflows all the commons that lie in its 
way. And this is the utmost achievement of those 
dreadful champions in the field of love — the beaux. 

Aman. But prithee, Berinthia, instruct me a 
little farther ; for I am so great a novice I'm 
almost ashamed on't. My husband's leaving me 
whilst I was young and fond threw me into that 
depth of discontent, that ever since I have led so 
private and recluse a life, my ignorance is scarce 
conceivable. I therefore fain would be instructed. 
Not (Heaven knows) that what you call intrigues 
have any charms for me ; my love and principles 
are too well fixed. The practic part of all unlaw- 
ful love is — 

Ber. Oh, 'tis abominable ! But for the specu- 
lative ; that we must all confess is entertaining. 
The conversation of all the virtuous women in the 
town turns upon that and new clothes. 

Aman. Pray be so just then to me to believe, 
'tis with a world of innocency I would inquire, 
whether you think those women we call women of 
reputation, do really 'scape all other men, as they 
do those shadows of 'em, the beaux. 

Ber. O no, Amanda; there are a sort of men 
make dreadful work amongst 'em : men that may 
be called the beaux antipathy ; for they agree in 
nothing but walking upon two legs. — These have 
brains, the beau has none. These are in love with 
their mistress, the beau with himself. They take 
care of her reputation, he's industrious to destroy 
it. They are decent, he's a fop. They are sound, 
he's rotten. They are men, he's an ass. 

Aman. If this be their character, 1 fancy we 
had here e'en now a pattern of 'em both. 

Ber. His lordship and Mr. Worthy ? 

Aman. The same. 

Ber. As for the lord, he's eminently so ; and 
for the other, I can assure you, there's not a man 



in town who has a better interest with the women, 
that are worth having an interest with. But 'tis 
all private: he's like a back-stair minister at 
court, who, whilst the reputed favourites are 
sauntering in the bedchamber, is ruling the roast 
in the closet. 

Aman. He answers then the opinion I had 
ever of him. Heavens ! What a difference there 
is between a man like him, and that vain nauseous 
fop, sir Novelty. — [Taking her hand.~\ I must 
acquaint you with a secret, cousin. 'Tis not that 
fool alone has talked to me of love, Worthy has 
been tampering too. 'Tis true, he has done it in 
vain : not all his charms or art have power to 
shake me. My love, my duty, and my virtue, are 
such faithful guards, I need not fear my heart 
should e'er betray me. But what I wonder at is 
this : I find I did not start at his proposal, as when 
it came from one whom I contemned. I therefore 
mention this attempt, that I may learn from you 
whence it proceeds ; that vice (which cannot 
change its nature) should so far change at least its 
shape, as that the self-same crime proposed from 
one shall seem a monster gaping at your ruin ; 
when from another it shall look so kind, as though 
it were your friend, and never meant to harm you. 
Whence, think you, can this difference proceed ? 
For 'tis not love, Heaven knows. 

Ber. O no ; I would not for the world believe 
it were. But possibly, should there a dreadful 
sentence pass upon you, to undergo the rage of 
both their passions ; the pain you apprehend from 
one might seem so trivial to the other, the danger 
would not quite so much alarm you. 

Aman. Fy, fy, Berinthia ! you would indeed 
alarm me, could you incline me to a thought, that 
all the merit of mankind combined could shake 
that tender love I bear my husband. No, he sits 
triumphant in my heart, and nothing can dethrone 
him. 

Ber. But should he abdicate again, do you 
think you should preserve the vacant throne ten 
tedious winters more in hopes of his return ? 

Aman. Indeed I think I should. Though I 
confess, after those obligations he has to me, 
should he abandon me once more, my heart would 
grow extremely urgent with me to root him thence, 
and cast him out for ever. 

Ber. Were I that thing they call a slighted wife, 
somebody should run the risk of being that thing 
they call — a husband. 

Aman. O fy, Berinthia ! no revenge should 
ever be taken against a husband. But to wrong 
his bed is a vengeance, which of all vengeance — 

Ber. Is the sweetest, ha ! ha ! ha ! Don't I 
talk madly ? 

Aman. Madly indeed. 

Ber. Yet I'm very innocent. 

Aman. That I dare swear you are. I know 
how to make allowances for your humour : you 
were always very entertaining company ; but I 
find since marriage and widowhood have shown 
you the world a little, you are very much improved. 

Ber. [Aside.'] Alack a-day, there has gone 
more than that to improve me, if she knew all ! 

Aman. For Heaven's sake, Berinthia, tell me 
what way I shall take to persuade you to come 
and live with me ? 

Ber. Why, one way in the world there is — and 
but one. 



SCENE I. 



THE RELAPSE: OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



313 



Aman. Pray which is that ? 

Ber. It is to assure me — I shall be very wel- 
come. 

Aman. If that be all, you shall e'en lie here to- 
night. 

Ber. To-night ! 

Aman. Yes, to-night. 

Ber. Why, the people where I lodge will think 
me mad. 

Aman. Let 'em think what they please. 

Ber . Say you so, Amanda ? Why then they 
shall think what they please : for I'm a young 
widow, and I care not what anybody thinks. Ah, 
Amanda, it's a delicious thing to be a young widow ! 

Aman. You'll hardly make me think so. 

Ber. Phu ! because you are in love with your hus- 
band : but that is rot every woman's case. 

Aman. I hope 'twas yours at least. 

Ber. Mine, say ye ? Now I have a great mind 
to tell you a lie, but I should do it so awkwardly 
you'd find me out. 

Aman. Then e'en speak the truth. 

Ber. Shall I ?— Then after all I did love him, 
Amanda — as a nun does penance. 

Aman. Why did not you refuse to marry him, 
then 

Ber. Because my mother wouldhave whipped me. 

Aman. How did you live together ? 

Ber. Like man and wife, asunder. — He loved 
the country, I the town. He hawks and hounds, 
I coaches and equipage. He eating and drinking, 
I carding and playing. He the sound of a horn, I 
the squeak of a fiddle. We were dull company at 
table, worse a-bed. Whenever we met, we gave 
one another the spleen ; and never agreed but once, 
which was about lying alone. 

Aman. But tell me one thing truly and sincerely. 

Ber. What's that ? 

Aman. Notwithstanding all these jars, did not 
his death at last extremely trouble you ? 

Ber. O yes. Not that my present pangs were 



so very violent, but the after-pains were intolerable. 
I was forced to wear a beastly widow's band a 
twelvemonth for't. 

Aman. Women, I find, have different inclina- 
tions. 

Ber. Women, I find, keep different company. 
When your husband ran away from you, if you had 
fallen into some of my acquaintance, 'twould have 
saved you many a tear. But you go and live with 
a grandmother, a bishop, and an old nurse ; which 
was enough to make any woman break her heart 
for her husband. Pray, Amanda, if ever you are a 
widow again, keep yourself so, as I do. 

Aman. Why ! do you then resolve you'll never 
marry ? 

Ber. O, no ; I resolve I will. 

Aman. How so ? 

Ber. That I never may. 

Aman. You banter me. 

Ber. Indeed I don't. But I consider I'm a 
woman, and form my resolutions accordingly. 

Aman. Well, my opinion is, form what resolu- 
tion you will, matrimony will be the end on't. 

Ber. Faith it \.on't. 

Aman. How do you know? 

Ber. I am sure on't. 

Aman. Why, do you think 'tis impossible for 
you to fall in love ? 

Ber. No. 

Aman. Nay, but to grow so passionately fond, 
that nothing butthe man you love can give you rest. 

Ber. Well, what then ? 

Aman. Why then you'll marry him. 

Ber. How do you know that % 

Aman. Why, what can you do else ? 

Ber. Nothing — but sit and cry. 

Aman. Psha ! 

Ber. Ah, poor Amanda ! you have led a country 
life : but if you'll consult the widows of this town, 
they'll tell you, you should never take a lease of a 
house you can hire for a quarter's warning. {Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Lord Foppington's 
House. 

Enter Lord Foppington and Servant. 

Lord Fop. Hey, fellow, let the coach come to 
the door. 

Ser. Will your lordship venture so soon to expose 
yourself to the weather ? 

Lord Fop. Sir, I will venture as soon as I can, 
to expose myself to the ladies ; though give me my 
cloak, however ; for in that side-box, what between 
the air that comes in at the door on one side, and 
the intolerable warmth of the masks on t'other, 
a man gets so many heats and colds, 'twould destroy 
the canstitution of a harse. 

Ser. [Putting on his cloak.] I wish your lord- 
ship would please to keep house a little longer ; I'm 
afraid your honour does not well consider your 
wound. 

Lord Fop. My wound !— I would not be in 
eclipse another day, though I had as many wounds 
in my guts as I have had in my heart. {Exit Servant. 



Enter Tom Fashion. 



Fash. Brother, your servant. How do you find 
yourself to-day ? 

Lord Fop. So well, that I have ardered my 
coach to the door : so there's no great danger of 
death this baut, Tarn. 

Fash. I'm very glad of it. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] That I believe's a lie. — 
[Aloud.] Prithee, Tarn, tell me one thing : did not 
your heart cut a caper up to your mauth, when you 
heard I was run through the bady ? 

Fash. Why do you think it should ? 

Lord Fop. Because I remember mine did so, 
when I heard my father was shat through the 
head. 

Fash. It then did very ill. 

Lord Fop. Prithee, why so ? 

Fash. Because he used you very well. 

Lord Fop. Well ? — naw, strike me dumb ! he 
starved me. He has let me want a thausand wo- 
men for want of a thausand paund. 

Fash. Then he hindered you from making a 



314 



THE RELAPSE ■ OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



great many ill bargains, for I think no woman is 
worth money that will take money. 

Lord Fop. If I were a younger brother, I should 
think so too. 

Fash. Why, is it possible you can value a wo- 
man that's to be bought ? 

Lord Fop. Prithee, why not as well as a pad- 
nag ? 

Fash. Because a woman has a heart to dispose 
of; a horse has none. 

Lord Fop. Look you, Tarn, of all things that 
belang to a woman, I have an aversion to her heart. 
Far when once a woman has given you her heart — 
you can never get rid of the rest of her bady. 

Fash. This is strange doctrine. But pray in 
your amours how is it with your own heart ? 

Lord Fop. Why, my heart in my amours — is 
like — my heart aut of my amours ; a la glace. My 
bady, Tarn, is a watch ; and my heart is the pen- 
dulum to it ; whilst the finger runs raund to 
every hour in the circle, that still beats the same 
time. 

Fash. Then you are seldom much in love ? 

Lord Fop. Never, stap my vitals ! 

Fash. Why then did you make all this bustle 
about Amanda ? 

Lord Fop. Because she was a woman of an inso- 
lent virtue, and I thought myself piqued in honour 
to debauch her. 

Fash. Very well. — [Aside.] Here's a rare fellow 
for you, to have the spending of five thousand 
pounds a year ! But now for my business with 
him — [Aloud.'] Brother, though I know to talk 
to you of business (especially of money) is a theme 
not quite so entertaining to you as that of the 
ladies ; my necessities are such, I hope you'll have 
patience to hear me. 

Lord Fop. The greatness of your necessities, 
Tarn, is the worst argument in the world for your 
being patiently heard. I do believe you are going 
to make me a very good speech, but, strike me 
dumb ! it has the worst beginning of any speech 
I have heard this twelvemonth. 

Fash. I'm very sorry you think so. 

Lord Fop. I do believe thou art. But come, 
let's know thy affair quickly ; far 'tis a new play, 
and I shall be so rum.pled and squeezed with 
pressing through the crawd, to get to my servant, 
the women will think I have lain all night in my 
clothes. 

Fash. Why then (that I may not be the author 
of so great a misfortune) my case in a word is this. 
The necessary expenses of my travels have so 
much exceeded the wretched income of my annuity, 
that I have been forced to mortgage it for five 
hundred pounds, which is spent ; so that unless 
you are so kind to assist me in redeeming it, I 
know no remedy but to take a purse. 

Lord Fop. Why, faith, Tarn — to give you my 
sense of the thing, I do think taking a purse the 
best remedy in the world : for if you sxicceed, you 
are relieved that way ; if you are taken — you are 
relieved t'other. 

Fash. I'm glad to see you are in so pleasant a 
humour, 1 hope I shall find the effects on't. 

Lord Fop. Why, do you then really think it a 
reasonable thing I should give you five hundred 
paunds ? 

Fash. I do not ask it as a due. brother, I am 
willing to receive it as a favour. 



Lord Fop. Thau art willing to receive it any 
haw, strike me speechless ! But these are damned 
times to give money in, taxes are so great, repairs 
so exorbitant, tenants such rogues, and periwigs 
so dear, that the devil take me, I am reduced to 
that extremity in my cash, I have been farced to 
retrench in that one article of sweet pawder, till 
I have braught it dawn to five guineas a manth. 
Naw judge, Tarn, whether I can spare you five 
hundred paunds. 

Fash. If you can't I must starve, that's all. — 
[Aside.] Damn him ! 

Lord Fop. All I can say is, you should have 
been a better husband. 

Fash. Oons, if you can't live upon five thou- 
sand a year, how do you think I should do't upon 
two hundred ? 

Lord Fop. Don't be in a passion, Tarn, far 
passion is the most unbecoming thing in the 
world — to the face. Look you, I don't love to 
say anything to you to make you malancholy ; 
but upon this occasion I must take leave to put 
you in mind, that a running horse does require 
more attendance than a coach-horse. Nature has 
made some difference 'twixt you and I. 

Fash. Yes, she has made you older. — [Aside.] 
Pox take her ! 

lord Fop. That is nat all, Tarn. 

Fash. Why, what is there else ? 

Lord Fop. [Looking first upon himself, then 
upon his brother.] A.sk the ladies. 

Fash. Why, thou essence-bottle ! thou musk 
cat ! dost thou then think thou hast any advantage 
over me, but what Fortune has given thee 1 

Lord Fop. I do — stap my vitals ! 

Fash. Now, by all that's great and powerful, 
thou art the prince of coxcombs ! 

Lord Fop. Sir — I am praud of being at the 
head of so prevailing a party. 

Fash. Will nothing then provoke thee ? Draw, 
coward ! 

Lord Fop. Look you, Tarn, you know I have 
always taken you for a mighty dull fellow, and 
here is one of the foolishest plats broke out that 
I have seen a long time. Your paverty makes 
your life so burdensome to you, you would pro- 
voke me to a quarrel, in hopes either to slip 
through my lungs into my estate, or to get your- 
self run through the guts, to put an end to your 
pain. But I will disappoint you in both your 
designs ; far, with the temper of a philasapher, and 
the discretion of a statesman — I will go to the play 
with my sword in my scabbard. [Exit. 

Fash. So ! Farewell, snuff-box ! and now, 
conscience, I defy thee. — Lory ! 

Enter Lory. 

Lory. Sir ! 

Fash. Here's rare news, Lory ; his lordship has 
given me a pill has purged off all my scruples. 

Lory. Then my heart's at ease again. For I 
have been in a lamentable fright, sir, ever since 
your conscience had the impudence to intrude into 
your company. 

Fash. Be at peace, it will come there no more : 
my brother has given it a wring by the nose, and 
I have kicked it down stairs. So run away to 
the inn ; get the horses ready quickly, and 
bring 'em to old Coupler's, without a moment's 
delay. 



SCENE II. 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



316 



Lory. Then, sir, you are going straight about 
the fortune ? 

Fash. I am. Away ! fly, Lory ! 

Lory. The happiest day I ever saw. I'm upon 
the wing already. [Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. — A Garden adjoining Loveless's 
Lodgings. 

Enter Loveless and Servant. 

Love. Is my wife within ? 

Ser. No, sir, she has been gone out this half 
hour. 

Love. 'Tis well, leave me. [Exit Servant.] 
Sure fate has yet some business to be done, 
Before Amanda's heart and mine must rest ; 
Else, why amongst those legions of her sex, 
Which throng the world, 
Should she pick out for her companion 
The only one on earth 

Whom nature has endow'd for her undoing ? 
Undoing, was't, I said ! — who shall undo her ? 
Is not her empire fix'd ? am I not hers ? 
Did she not rescue me, a grovelling slave, 
When chain' d and bound by that black tyrant vice, 
I labour'd in his vilest drudgery ? 
Did she not ransom me, and set me free ? 
Nay more : when by my follies sunk 
To a poor tatter' d despicable beggar, 
Did she not lift me up to envied fortune ! 
Give me herself, and all that she possess'd ? 
Without a thought of more return, 
Than what a poor repenting heart might make her. 
Han't she done this ? And if she has, 
Am I not strongly bound to love her for it ? 
To love her ! — why do I not love her then ? 
By earth and heaven I do ! 
Nay, I have demonstration that I do : 
For I would sacrifice my life to serve her. 
Yet hold — if laying down my life 
Be demonstration of my love, 
What is't I feel in favour of Berinthia ? 
For should she be in danger, methinks I could 
incline to risk it for her service too ; and yet I 
do not love her. How then subsists my proof? — 
Oh, I have found it out ! What I would do for 
one, is demonstration of my love ; and if I'd do as 
much for t'other : it there is demonstration of my 
friendship — Ay — it must be so. I find I'm very 
much her friend. Yet let me ask myself one puz- 
zling question more : Whence springs this mighty 
friendship all at once % For our acquaintance is of 
later date. Now friendship's said to be a plant of 
tedious growth, its root composed of tender fibres, 
nice in their taste, cautious in spreading, 
Check'd with the least corruption in the soil ; 
Long ere it take, 

And longer still ere it appear to do so : 
Whilst mine is in a moment shot so high, 
And fix'd so fast, 

It seems beyond the power of storms to shake it. 
I doubt it thrives too fast. [Musing. 

Enter Berinthia. 

Ah, she here ! — Nay, then take heed my heart, 
for there are dangers towards. 



Ber. What makes you look so thoughtful, sir ? 
I hope you are not ill. 

Love. I was debating, madam, whether I was 
so or not ; and that was it which made me look 
so thoughtful. 

Ber. Is it then so hard a matter to decide ? I 
thought all people had been acquainted with their 
own bodies, though few people know their own 
minds. 

hove. What if the distemper, I suspect, be in 
the mind ? 

Ber. Why then I'll undertake to prescribe you 
a cure. 

Love. Alas ! you undertake you know not what. 

Ber. So far at least then allow me to be a 
physician. 

Love. Nay, I'll allow you so yet further : for I 
have reason to believe, should I put myself into 
your hands, you would increase my distemper. 

Ber. Perhaps I might have reasons from the 
college not to be too quick in your cure ; but 'tis 
possible I might find ways to give you often ease, 
sir. 

Love. Were I but sure of that, I'd quickly lay 
my case before you. 

Ber. Whether you are sure of it or no, what 
risk do you run in trying ? 

Love. Oh ! a very great one. 

Ber. How ? 

Love. You might betray my distemper to my 
wife. 

Ber. And so lose all my practice. 

Love. Will you then keep my secret ? 

Ber. I will, if it don't burst me. 

Love. Swear. 

Ber. I do. 

Love. By what ? 

Ber. By woman. 

Love. That's swearing by my deity. Do it by 
your own, or I shan't believe you. 

Ber. By man then. 

Love. I'm satisfied. Now hear my symptoms, 
and give me your advice. The first were these : 
When 'twas my chance to see you at the play, 
A random glance you threw at first alarm 'd me, 
I could not turn my eyes from whence the danger 

came : 
I gazed upon you fill you shot again, 
And then my fears came on me. 
My heart began to pant, my limbs to tremble, 
My blood grew thin, my pulse beat quick, my eyes 
Grew hot and dim, and all the frame of nature 
Shook with apprehension. 
'Tis true, some small recruits of resolution 
My manhood brought to my assistance ; 
And by their help I made a stand a while, 
But found at last your arrows flew so thick, 
They could not fail to pierce me ; so left the field, 
And fled for shelter to Amanda's arms. 
What think you of these symptoms, pray ? 

Ber. Feverish every one of 'em. 
But what relief pray did your wife afford you ? 

Love. Why, instantly she let me blood ; 
Which for the present much assuaged my fl'ame. 
But when I saw you, out it burst again, 
And raged with greater fury than before. 
Nay, since you now appear, 'tis so increased, 
That in a moment, if you do not help me, 
I shall, whilst you look on, consume to ashes. 

[TaRes hold of her hand. 



316 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



Ber. [Breaking from him.] O Lard, let me go ? 
'Tis the plague, and we shall all be infected. 

Love. [Catching her in his arms, and kissing 
her.] Then we'll die together, my charming angel ! 

Ber. O Ged — the devil's in you ! — Lord, let 
me go, here's somebody coming. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Sir, my lady's come home, and desires to 
speak with you : she's in her chamber. 

Love. Tell her I'm coming. — [Exit Servant.] 
But before I go, one glass of nectar more to drink 
her health. 

Ber. Stand off, or I shall hate you, by Heavens ! 

Love. [Kissing her.] In matters of love, a wo- 
man's oath is no more to be minded than a man's. 

Ber. Um — 

Enter "Worthy. 

Wor. [Aside.] Ha ! what's here ? my old mis- 
tress, and so close, i' faith ! I would not spoil her 
sport for the universe. [Exit. 

Ber. O Ged ! — Now do I pray to Heaven, — 
[Exit Loveless running] with all my heart and 
soul, that the devil in hell may take me, if ever — I 
was better pleased in my life ! — This man has 
bewitched me, that's certain. — [Sighing.] "Well, I 
am condemned ; but, thanks to Heaven, I feel 
myself each moment more and more prepared for 
my execution. Nay, to that degree, I don't per- 
ceive I have the least fear of dying. No, I find, 
let the executioner be but a man, and there's 
nothing will suffer with more resolution than a 
woman. Well, I never had but one intrigue yet — 
but I confess I long to have another. Pray Heaven 
it end as the first did though, that we may both 
grow weary at a time ; for 'tis a melancholy thing 
for lovers to outlive one another. 

Re-enter Worthy. 

Wor. [Aside.] This discovery's a lucky one, I 
hope to make a happy use on't. That gentlewo- 
man there is no fool ; so I shall be able to make 
her understand her interest. — [Aloud.] Your ser- 
vant, madam ; I need not ask you how you do, you 
have got so good a colour. 

Ber. No better than I used to have, I suppose. 

Wor. A little more blood in your cheeks. 

Ber. The weather's hot. 

Wor. If it were not, a woman may have a colour. 

Ber. What do you mean by that ? 

Wor. Nothing. 

Ber. Why do you smile then r 

Wor. Because the weather's hot. 

Ber. You'll never leave roguing, I see that. 

Wor. [Putting his finger to his nose.] You'll 
never leave — I see that. 

Ber. Well, I can't imagine what you drive at. 
Pray tell me what you mean ? 

Wor. Do you tell me ; it's the same thing. 

Ber. I can't. 

Wor. Guess ! 

Ber. I shall guess wrong. 

Wor. Indeed you won't. 

Ber. Psha ! either tell, or let it alone. 

Wor. Nay, rather than let it alone, I will tell. 
But first I must put you in mind, that after what 
has passed 'twixt you and I, very few things ought 
to be secrets between us. 

Ber. "Why, what secrets do we hide ? I know of 
none. 



Wor. Yes, there are two ; one I have hid from 
you, and t'other you would hide from me. You 
are fond of Loveless, which I have discovered ; and 
I am fond of his wife — 

Ber. Which I have discovered. 

Wor. Very well, now I confess your discovery 
to be true : what do you say to mine ? 

Ber. Why, I confess — I would swear 'twere 
false, if I thought you were fool enough to believe 
me. 

Wor. Now am I almost in love with you again. 
Nay, I don't know but I might be quite so, had I 
made one short campaign with Amanda. There- 
fore, if you find 'twould tickle your vanity to bring 
me down once more to your lure, e'en help me 
quickly to despatch her business, that I may have 
nothing else to do, but to apply myself to yours. 

Ber. Do you then think, sir, I am old enough 
to be a bawd ? 

Wor. No, but I think you are wise enough to — 

Ber. To do what ? 

Wor. To hoodwink Amanda with a gallant, that 
she mayn't see who is her husband's mistress. 

Ber. [Aside.] He has reason : the hint's a good 
one. 

Wor. Well, madam, what think you on't ? 

Ber. I think you are so much a deeper politician 
in these affairs than I am, that I ought to have a 
very great regard to your advice. 

Wor. Then give me leave to put you in mind, 
that the most easy, safe, and pleasant situation for 
your own amour, is the house in which you now 
are, provided you keep Amanda from any sort of 
suspicion. That the way to do that, is to engage 
her in an intrigue of her own, making yourself her 
confidant. And the way to bring her to intrigue, 
is to make her jealous of her husband in a wrong 
place ; which the more you foment, the less you'll 
be suspected. This is my scheme, in short ; which 
if you follow as you should do, my dear Berinthia, 
we may all four pass the winter very pleasantly. 

Ber. Well, I could be glad to have nobody's sins 
to answer for but my own. But where there is a 
necessity— 

Wor. Right : as you say, where there is a neces- 
sity, a Christian is bound to help his neighbour. 
So, good Berinthia, lose no time, but let us begin 
the dance as fast as we can. 

Ber. Not till the fiddles are in tune, pray sir. 
Your lady's strings will be very apt to fly, I can 
tell you that, if they are wound up too hastily. 
But if you'll have patience to screw 'em to the pitch 
by degrees, I don't doubt but she may endure to 
be played upon. 

Wor. Ay, and will make admirable music too, 
or I'm mistaken. But have you had no private 
closet discourse with her yet about males and 
females, and so forth, which may give you hopes 
in her constitution ? for I know her morals are the 
devil against us. 

Ber. I have had so much discourse with her, that 
I believe, were she once cured of her fondness to 
her husband, the fortress of her virtue would not 
be so impregnable as she fancies. 

Wor. What ! she runs, I'll warrant you, into 
that common mistake of fond wives, who conclude 
themselves virtuous, because they can refuse a man 
they don't like, when they have got one they do. 

Ber. True ; and therefore I think 'tis a presump- 
tuous thing in a woman to assume the name of 



SCENE III. 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



sir 



virtuous, till she has heartily hated her husband, 
and been soundly in love with somebody else. 
Whom, if she has withstood — then — much good 
may it do her. 

Wor. Well, so much for her virtue. Now, one 
word of her inclinations, and every one to their 
post. What opinion do you find she has of me ? 

Ber. What you could wish ; she thinks you hand- 
some and discreet. 

Wor. Good ; that's thinking half-seas over. One 
tide more brings us into port. 

Ber. Perhaps it may, though still remember, 
there's a difficult bar to pass. 

Wor. I know there is, but I don't question I 
shall get well over it, by the help of such a pilot. 

Ber. You may depend upon your pilot, she'll do 
the best she can ; so weigh anchor and begone as 
soon as you please. 

Wor. I'm under sail already. Adieu ! 

Ber. Bon voyage! — [Exit Worthy.] So, here's 
fine work ! What a business have I undertaken ! 
I'm a very pretty gentlewoman truly ! But there 
was no avoiding it : he'd have ruin'd me, if I had 
refused him. Besides, faith, I begin to fancy there 
may be as much pleasure in carrying on another 
body's intrigue as one's own. This at least is 
certain, it exercises almost all the entertaining 
faculties of a woman : for there's employment for 
hypocrisy, invention, deceit, flattery, mischief, and 
lying. 

Enter Amanda, her Maid following her. 

Maid. If you please, madam, only to say, whe- 
ther you'll have me buy 'em or not. 

Aman. Yes, no, go fiddle ! I care not what you 
do. Prithee leave me. 

Maid. I have done. [Exit. 

Ber. What in the name of Jove's the matter 
with you ? 

Aman. The matter, Berinthia ! I'm almost mad, 
I'm plagued to death. 

Ber. Who is it that plagues you ? 

Aman. Who do you think should plague a wife, 
but her husband ? 

Ber. O ho, is it come to that ? We shall have 
you wish yourself a widow by and by. 

Aman. Would I were anything but what I am ! 
A base ungrateful man, after what I have done for 
him, to use me thus ! 

Ber. What, he has been ogling now, I'll warrant 
you ? 

Aman. Yes, he has been ogling. 

Ber. And so you are jealous ? is that all ? 

Aman. That all ! is jealousy then nothing ? 

Ber. It should be nothing, if I were in your case. 

Aman. Why, what would you do ? 

Ber. I'd cure myself. 

Aman. How ? 

Ber. Let blood in the fond vein : care as little 
for my husband as he did for me. 

Aman. That would not stop his course. 

Ber. Nor nothing else, when the wind's in the 
warm corner. Look you, Amanda, you may build 
castles in the air, and fume, and fret, and grow 
thin and lean, and pale and ugly, if you please. 
But I tell you, no man worth having is true to his 
wife, or can be true to his wife, or ever was, or 
ever will be so. 

Aman. Do you then really think he's false to me ? 
for I did but suspect him. 



Ber. Think so ! I know he's so. 

Aman. Is it possible ? Pray tell me what you 
know. 

Ber. Don't press me then to name names, for 
that I have sworn I won't do. 

Aman. Well, I won't ; but let me know all you 
can without perjury. 

Ber. I'll let you know enough to prevent any 
wise woman's dying of the pip ; and I hope you'll 
pluck up your spirits, and show upon occasion you 
can be as good a wife as the best of 'em. 

Aman. Well, what a woman can do I'll endea- 
vour. 

Ber. Oh, a woman can do a great deal, if once she 
sets her mind to it. Therefore pray don't stand 
trifling any longer, and teasing yourself with this 
and that, and your love and your virtue, and I 
know not what : but resolve to hold up your head, 
get a-tiptoe, and look over 'em all ; for to my cer- 
tain knowledge your husband is a pickeering else- 
where. 

Aman. You are sure on't ? 

Ber. Positively he fell in love at the play. 

Aman. Right, the very same. Do you know 
the ugly thing ? 

Ber. Yes, I know her well enough ; but she's 
no such ugly thing neither. 

Aman. Is she very handsome ? 

Ber. Truly I think so. 

Aman. Hey ho ! 

Ber. What do you sigh for now ? 

Aman. Oh, my heart ! 

Ber. [Aside.] Only the pangs of nature ; she's 
in labour of her love ; Heaven send her a quick 
delivery, I'm sure she has a good midwife. 

Aman. I'm very ill, I must go to my chamber. 
Dear Berinthia, don't leave me a moment. 

Ber. No, don't fear. — [Aside.'] I'll see you 
safe brought to bed, I'll warrant you. 

[Exeunt, Amanda leaning upon Berinthia. 



SCENE III Sir Tunbelly Clumsey's 

Country-House. 

Enter Tom Fashion and Lory. 

Fash. So, here's our inheritance, Lory, if we 
can but get into possession. But methinks the seat 
of our family looks like Noah's ark, as if the chief 
part on't were designed for the fowls of the air, 
and the beasts of the field. 

Lory. Pray, sir, don't let your head run upon 
the orders of building here ; get but the heiress, 
let the devil take the house. 

Fash. Get but the house, let the devil take the 
heiress, I say ; at least if she be as old Coupler 
describes her. But come, we have no time to 
squander. Knock at the door. — [Lory knocks 
two or three times.] What the devil, have they 
got no ears in this house ? Knock harder. 

Lory. Egad, sir, this will prove some enchanted 
castle ; we shall have the giant come out by and 
by with his club, and beat our brains out. 

[Knocks again. 

Fash. Hush ; they come. 

Servant. [ Within.] Who is there ? 

Lory. Open the door and see. Is that your 
country breeding ? 

Ser. Ay, but two words to a bargain. — Turamus. 
is the blunderbuss primed ? 



318 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



AOT II J. 



Fash. Oons, give 'em good words, Lory ; we 
shall be shot here a fortune-catching. 

Lory. Egad, sir, I think y'are in the right on't. 
— Ho ! Mr. What-d'ye-call um. 

[Servant appears at the window with a blunderbuss. 

Ser. Weall naw, what's yare business ? 

Fash. Nothing, sir, but to wait upon sir Tun- 
belly, with your leave. 

Ser. To weat upon sir Tunbelly ! Why, you'll 
find that's just as sir Tunbelly pleases. 

Fash. But will you do me the favour, sir, to 
know whether sir Tunbelly pleases or not ? 

Ser. Why, look you, do you see, with good 
words much may be done. — Ralph, go thy weas, 
and ask sir Tunbelly if he pleases to be waited 
upon. And dost hear? call to nurse that she 
may lock up Miss Hoyden before the geat's open. 

Fash. D'ye hear that, Lory ? 

Lory. Ay, sir, I'm afraid we shall find a difficult 
job on't. Pray Heaven that old rogue Coupler 
han't sent us to fetch milk out of the gunroom. 

Fash. I'll warrant thee all will go well. See, 
the door opens. 

Enter Sir Tunbelly, with his Servants armed with guns, 
clubs, pitchforks, scythes, §c. 

Lory. [Running behind his master."] O Lord ! 
O Lord ! O Lord ! we are both dead men ! 

Fash. Take heed, fool ! thy fear will ruin us. 

Lory. My fear, sir ! 'sdeath, sir, I fear 
nothing. — [Aside.] Would I were well up to the 
chin in a horsepond ! 

Sir Tun. Who is it here has any business with 
me? 

Fash. Sir, 'tis I, if your name be sir Tunbelly 
Clumsey. 

Sir Tun. Sir, my name is sir Tunbelly Clum- 
sey, whether you have any business with me or 
not. So you see I am not ashamed of my name 
— nor my face — neither. 

Fash. Sir, you have no cause, that I know of 

Sir Tun. Sir, if you have no cause neither, I 
desire to know who you are ; for till I know your 
name, I shall not ask you to come into my house ; 
and when I know your name — 'tis six to four I 
don't ask you neither. 

Fash. [Giving him a letter.] Sir, I hope you'll 
find this letter an authentic passport. 

Sir Tun. Cod's my life ! I ask your lordship's 
pardon ten thousand times. — [ To a Servant. ] Here, 
run in a-doors quickly. Get a Scotch-coal fire in 
the great parlour ; set all the Turkey-work chairs 
in their places ; get the great brass candlesticks 
out, and be sure stick the sockets full of laurel, 
run ! — [Exit Servant.] My lord, I ask your 
lordship's pardon. — [ To other Servants.] And do 
you hear, run away to nurse, bid her let Miss 
Hoyden loose again, and if it was not shifting 
day, let her put on a clean tucker, quick ! — [Ex- 
eunt Servants confusedly.] I hope your honour 
will excuse the disorder of my family ; we are not 
used to receive men of your lordship's great quality 
every day. Pray where are your coaches, and 
servants, my lord ? 

Fash. Sir, that I might give you and your fair 
daughter a proof how impatient I am to be nearer 
akin to you, I left my equipage to follow me, and 
came away post with only one servant. 

Sir Tun. Your lordship does me too much 
honour. It was exposing your person to too much 



fatigue and danger, I protest it was. But my 
daughter shall endeavour to make you what amends 
she can ; and though I say it that should not say 
it — Hoyden has charms. 

Fash. Sir, I am not a stranger to them, though 
I am to her. Common fame has done her justice. 

Sir Tun. My lord, I am common fame's very 
grateful humble servant. My lord — my girl's 
young, Hoyden is young, my lord; but this I must 
say for her, what she wants in art, she has by 
nature ; what she wants in experience, she has in 
breeding ; and what's wanting in her age, is made 
good in her constitution. So pray, my lord, walk 
in : pray, my lord, walk in. 

Fash. Sir, I wait upon you. {Exeunt. 



SCENE IV.— A Room in the same. 
Miss Hoyden discovered alone. 

Hoyd. Sure never nobody was used as I am. I 
know well enough what other girls do, for all they 
think to make a fool of me. It's well I have a 
husband a-coming, or, ecod, I'd marry the baker, 
I would so ! Nobody can knock at the gate, but 
presently I must be locked up ; and here's the 
young greyhound bitch can run loose about the 
house all the day long, she can ; 'tis very well. 

Nurse. [Without.] Miss Hoyden ! miss! miss! 
miss ! Miss Hoyden ! 

Enter Nurse. 

Hoyd. Well, what do you make such a noise for, 
ha ? what do you din a body's ears for ? Can't 
one be at quiet for you ? 

Nurse. What do I din your ears for ! Here's 
one come will din your ears for you. 

Hoyd. What care I who's come ? I care not a 
fig who comes, nor who goes, as long as I must be 
locked up like the ale-cellar. 

Nurse. That, miss, is for fear you should be 
drunk before you are ripe. 

Hoyd. Oh, don't you trouble your head about 
that ; I'm as ripe as you, 'though not so mellow. 

Nurse. Very well ; now have I a good mind to 
lock you up again, and not let you see my lord to- 
night. 

Hoyd. My lord ! why, is my husband come ? 

Nurse. Yes, marry is he, and a goodly person 
too. 

Hoyd. [Hugging Nurse.j O my dear nurse ! 
forgive me this once, and I'll never misuse you 
again ; no, if I do you shall give me three thumps 
on the back, and a great pinch by the cheek. 

Nurse. Ah, the poor thing, see how it melts ! 
It's as full of good-nature as an egg's full of meat. 

Hoyd. But, my dear nurse, don't lie now ; is 
he come by your troth ? 

Nurse. Yes, by my truly, is he. 

Hoyd. O Lord ! I'll go put on my laced smock, 
though I'm whipped till the blood run down my 
heels for't. {Exit running. 

Nurse. Eh — the Lord succour thee ! How 
thou art delighted ! [Exit after her. 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



319 



SCENE V Another Room in the same. 

Enter Sir Tunbelly and Tom Fashion. Servant following 
with wine. 

Sir Tun. My lord, I'm proud of the honour to 
see your lordship within my doors ; and I humbly 
crave leave to bid you welcome in a cup of sack 
wine. 

Fash. Sir, to your daughter's health. [Drinks. 

Sir Tun. Ah, poor girl, she'll be scared out of 
her wits on her wedding-night ; for, honestly speak- 
ing, she does not know a man from a woman but 
by his beard and his breeches. 

Fash. Sir, I don't doubt but she has a virtuous 
education, which with the rest of her merit makes 
me long to see her mine. I wish you would dis- 
pense with the canonical hour, and let it be this 
very night. 

Sir Tun. Oh, not so soon neither ! that's shoot- 
ing my girl before you bid her stand. No, give 
her fair warning, we'll sign and seal to-night, if you 
please ; and this day seven-night — let the jade look 
to her quarters. 



Fash. This day se'nnight ! — why ; what do 
you take me for a ghost, sir ? 'Slife, sir, I'm made 
of flesh and blood, and bones and sinews, and can 

no more live a week without your daughter 

[Aside] than I can live a month with her. 

Sir Tun. Oh, I'll warrant you, my hero ; young 
men are hot, I know, but they don't boil over at 
that rate, neither. Besides, my wench's wedding- 
gown is not come home yet. 

Fash. Oh, no matter, sir, I'll take her in her 
shift.— [Aside.] A pox of this old fellow! he'll 
delay the business till my damned star finds me 
out and discovers me. — [Aloud.] Pray, sir, let it 
be done without ceremony, 'twill save money. 

Sir Tun. Money ! — save money when Hoyden's 
to be married ! Udswoons I'll give my wench a 
wedding-dinner, though I go to grass with the king 
of Assyria for't ; and such a dinner it shall be, as is 
not to be cooked in the poaching of an egg. There- 
fore, my noble lord, have a little patience, we'll go 
and look over our deeds and settlements imme- 
diately; and as for your bride, though you may be 
sharp-set before she's quite ready, I'll engage for 
my girl she stays your stomach at last. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. — A Boom in Sir Tunbelly Clum- 
sey's Country -House. 

Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 

Nurse. Well, miss, how do you like your hus- 
band that is to be ? 

Hoyd. O Lord, nurse ! I'm so overjoyed I can 
scarce contain myself. 

Nurse. Oh, but you must have a care of being 
too fond ; for men now-a-days hate a woman that 
loves 'em. 

Hoyd. Love him ! why do you think I love him, 
nurse ? ecod I would not care if he were hanged, 
so I were but once married to him ! — No — that 
which pleases me, is to think what work I'll make 
when I get to London ; for when I am a wife and 
a lady both, nurse, ecod I'll flaunt it with the best 
of 'em. 

Nurse. Look, look, if his honour be not a-com- 
ing again to you ! Now, if I were sure you would 
behave yourself handsomely, and not disgrace me 
that have brought you up, I'd leave you alone to- 
gether. 

Hoyd. That's my best nurse, do as you would 
be done by ; trust us together this once, and if I 
don't show my breeding from the head to the foot 
of me, may I be twice married, and die a maid. 

Nurse. Well this once I'll venture you ; but if 
you disparage me — 

Hoyd. Never fear, I'll show him my parts, I'll 
warrant him. — [Exit Nurse.] These old women 
are so wise when they get a poor girl in their 
clutches ! but ere it be long, I shall know what's 
what, as well as the best of 'em. 

Enter Tom Fashion. 
Fash. Your servant, madam ; I'm glad to find 
you alone, for I have something of importance to 
speak to you about. 



Hoyd. Sir (my lord, I meant), you may speak to 
me about what you please, I shall give you a civil 
answer. 

Fash. You give me so obliging a one, it encou- 
rages me to tell you in few words what I think both 
for your interest and mine. Your father, I sup- 
pose you know, has resolved to make me happy in 
being your husband, and I hope I may depend upon 
your consent, to perform what he desires. 

Hoyd. Sir, I never disobey my father in anything 
but eating of green gooseberries. 

Fash. So good a daughter must needs be an 
admirable wife ; I am therefore impatient till you 
are mine, and hope you will so far consider the 
violence of my love, that you won't have the cruelty 
to defer my happiness so long as your father 
designs it. 

Hoyd. Pray, my lord, how long is that ? 

Fash. Madam, a thousand year — a whole week. 

Hoyd. A week ! — why I shall be an old woman 
by that time. 

Fash. And I an old man, which you'll find a 
greater misfortune than t'other. 

Hoyd. Why I thought it was to be to-morrow 
morning, as soon as I was up ; I'm sure nurse told 
me so. 

Fash. And it shall be to-morrow morning still, 
if you'll consent. 

Hoyd. If I'll consent ! Why I thought I was to 
obey you as my husband. 

Fash. That's when we are married ; till then, I 
am to obey you. 

Hoyd. Why then if we are to take it by turns, 
it's the same thing ; I'll obey you now, and when 
we are married, you shall obey me. 

Fash. With all my heart ; but I doubt we must 
get nurse on our side, or we shall hardly prevail 
with the chaplain. 

Hoyd. No more we shan't indeed, for he loves 



320 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



ACT IV. 



her better than he loves his pulpit, and would 
always be a preaching to her by his good will. 

Fash. Why then, my dear little bedfellow, if 
you'll call her hither, we'll try to persuade her 
presently. 

Hoyd. O Lord, I can tell you a way how to per- 
suade her to anything. 

Fash. How's that ? 

Hoyd. Why tell her she's a wholesome comely 
woman — and give her half-a-crown. 

Fash. Nay, if that will do she shall have half a 
score of 'em. 

Hoyd. O gemini ! for half that, she'd marry you 
herself, I'll run and call her. [Exit. 

Fash. So, matters go swimmingly. This is a 
rare girl, i' faith ; I shall have a fine time on't with 
her at London. I'm much mistaken if she don't 
prove a March hare all the year round. What a 
scampering chase will she make on't, when she 
finds the whole kennel of beaux at her tail ! hey to 
the park, and the play, and the church, and the 
devil ; she'll show them sport, I'll warrant 'em. 
But no matter, she brings an estate will afford me 
a separate maintenance. 

Re-enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 

How do you do, good mistress nurse ? I desired 
your young lady would give me leave to see you, 
that I might thank you for your extraordinary care 
and conduct in her education ; pray accept of this 
small acknowledgment for it at present, and depend 
upon my farther kindness, when I shall be that 
happy thing her husband. 

Nurse. [Aside.'] Gold by mackings ! — [Aloud.] 
Your honour's goodness is too great ; alas ! all I 
can boast of is, I gave her pure good milk, and so 
your honour would have said, an you had seen how 
the poor thing sucked it. — Eh, God's blessing on 
the sweet face on't ! how it used to hang at this 
poor teat, and suck and squeeze, and kick and 
sprawl it would, till the belly on't was so full, it 
would drop off like a leech. 

Hoyd. [Aside to Nurse angrily.'] Pray one 
word with you. Prithee nurse don't stand ripping 
up old stories, to make one ashamed before one's 
love. Do you think such a fine proper gentleman 
as he cares for a fiddlecome tale of a draggle- 
tailed girl ? If you have a mind to make him have 
a good opinion of a woman, don't tell him what 
one did then, tell him what one can do now. — [ To 
Tom Fashion.] I hope your honour will excuse 
my mismanners to whisper before you ; it was only 
to give some orders about the family. 

Fash. O everything, madam, is to give way to 
business ! Besides, good housewifery is a very com- 
mendable quality in a young lady. 

Hoyd. Pray, sir, are the young ladies good house- 
wives at London town ? Do they darn their own 
linen ? 

Fash. O no, they study how to spend money, 
not to save it. 

Hoyd. Ecod, I don't know out that may be 
better sport than t'other ; ha, nurse ? 

Fash. Well, you shall have your choice when 
you come there. 

Hoyd. Shall I ! — then by my troth I'll get there 
as fast as I can. — [To Nurse.] His honour desires 
you'll be so kind as to let us be married to-morrow 

Nurse. To-morrow, my dear madam ? 

Fash. Yes, to-morrow, sweet nurse, privately ; 



young folks, you know, are impatient, and sir 
Tunbelly would make us stay a week for a wedding 
dinner. Now all things being signed and sealed, 
and agreed, I fancy there could be no great harm 
in practising a scene or two of matrimony in private, 
if it were only to give us the better assurance when 
we come to play it in public. 

Nurse. Nay, I must confess stolen pleasures are 
sweet ; but if you should be married now, what 
will you do when sir Tunbelly calls for you to be 
wedded ? 

Hoyd. Why then we'll be married again. 

Nurse. What, twice, my child ? 

Hoyd. Ecod, I don't care how often I'm married, 
not I. 

Fash. Pray, nurse, don't you be against your 
young lady's good, for by this means she'll have the 
pleasure of two wedding-days. 

Hoyd. [ To Nurse softly.] And of two wedding- 
nights too, nurse. 

Nurse, Well, I'm such a tender-hearted fool, I 
find I can refuse nothing ; so you shall e'en follow 
your own inventions. 

Hoyd. Shall I !— [Aside.] O Lord, I could leap 
over the moon ! 

Fash. Dear nurse, this goodness of yours shan't 
go unrewarded ; but now you must employ your 
power with Mr. Bull the chaplain, that he may do 
us his friendly office too, and then we shall all be 
happy : do. you think you can prevail with him ? 

Nurse. Prevail with him ! — or he shall never 
prevail with me, I can tell him that. 

Hoyd. My lord, she has had him upon the hip 
this seven year. 

Fash. I'm glad to hear it ; nowever to strengthen 
your interest with him, you may let him know I 
have several fat livings in my gift, and that the 
first that falls shall be in your disposal. 

Nurse. Nay, then I'll make him marry more 
folks than one, I'll promise him. 

Hoyd. Faith do, nurse, make him marry you 
too, I'm sure he'll do't for a fat living : for he loves 
eating more than he loves his Bible ; and I have 
often heard him say, a fat living was the best meat 
in the world. 

Nurse. Ay, and I'll make him commend the 
sauce too, or I'll bring his gown to a cassock, I 
will so. 

Fash. Well, nurse, whilst you go and settle 
matters with him, then your lady and I will go and 
take a walk in the garden. 

Nurse. I'll do your honour's business in the 
catching up of a garter. [Exit. 

Fash. [Giving her his hand.] Come, madam, 
dare you venture yourself along with me ? 

Hoyd. O dear, yes, sir, I don't think you'll do 
anything to me I need be afraid on. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Loveless's Lodgings. 
Enter Amanda and Berinthia. 
SONG. 
I smile at Love and all its arts, 

The charming Cynthia cried : 
Take heed, for Love has piercing darts, 

A wounded swain replied. 
Once free and hlest as you are now, 

I trifled with his charms, 
I pointed at his little bow, 

And sported with his arms : 



SCENE II. 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



321 



Till urged too far, Revenge ! he cries, 

A fatal shaft he drew, 
It took its passage through your eyes, 

And to my heart it flew. 
To tear it thence I tried in vain, 

To strive I quickly found 
Was only to increase the pain, 

And to enlarge the wound. 
Ah ! much too well, I fear, you know 

What pain I'm to endure, 
Since what your eyes alone could do, 

Your heart alone can cure. 
And that (grant Heaven I may mistake !) 

I doubt is doom'd to bear 
A burden for another's sake, 

Who ill rewards its care. 

Avian. Well, now, Berinthia, I'm at leisure to 
hear what 'twas you had to say to me. 

JSer. What I had to say was only to echo the 
sighs and groans of a dying lover. 

A man. Phu ! will you never learn to talk in 
earnest of anything ? 

Ber. Why this shall be in earnest, if you please : 
for my part, I only tell you matter of fact, you 
may take it which way you like best ; but if you'll 
follow the women of the town, you'll take it both 
ways ; for when a man offers himself to one of 
them, first she takes him in jest, and then she takes 
him in earnest. 

Aman. I'm sure there's so much jest and earnest 
in what you say to me, I scarce know how to take 
it ; but I think you have bewitched me, for I don't 
find it possible to be angry with you, say what you 
will. 

Ber. I'm very glad to hear it, for I have no 
mind to quarrel with you, for some reasons that 
I'll brag of ; but quarrel or not, smile or frown, I 
must tell you what I have suffered upon your 
account. 

Aman. Upon my account ! 

Ber. Yes, upon yours ; I have been forced to 
sit still and hear you commended for two hours 
together, without one compliment to myself ; now 
don't you think a woman had a blessed time of 
that ? 

Aman. Alas ! I should have been unconcerned 
at it; I never knew where the pleasure lay of 
being praised by the men. But pray who was this 
that commended me so ? 

Ber. One you have a mortal aversion to, Mr. 
Worthy ; he used you like a text, he took you all 
to pieces, but spoke so learnedly upon every point, 
one might see the spirit of the church was in him. 
If you are a woman, you'd have been in an ecstacy 
to have heard how feelingly he handled your 
hair, your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your 
teeth, your tongue, your chin, your neck, and 
so forth. Thus he preached for an hour, but when 
he came to use an application, he observed that all 
these without a gallant were nothing. — Now con- 
sider of what has been said, and Heaven give you 
grace to put it in practice. 

Aman. Alas ! Berinthia, did I incline to a gal- 
lant (which you know I do not,) do you think a 
man so nice as he could have the least concern for 
such a plain unpolished thing as I am ? it is 
impossible ! 

Ber. Now have you a great mind to put me 
upon commending you. 

Aman. Indeed that was not my design. 

Ber. Nay, if it were, it's all one, for I won't do't, 



I'll leave that to your looking-glass. But to show 
you I have some good-nature left, I'll commend 
him, and may be that may do as well. 

Aman. You have a great mind to persuade me 
I am in love with him. 

Ber. I have a great mind to persuade you, you 
don't know what you are in love with. 

Aman. I am sure I am not in love with him, nor 
never shall be, so let that pass. But you were 
saying something you would commend him for. 

Ber. Oh ! you'd be glad to hear a good character 
of him, however. 

Aman. Psha ! 

Ber. Psha ! — Well 'tis a foolish undertaking for 
women in these kind of matters to pretend to 
deceive one another. — Have not I been bred a 
woman as well as you ? 

Aman. What then ! 

Ber. Why then I understand my trade so well, 
that whenever I am told of a man I like, I cry, 
psha ! But that I may spare you the pains of 
putting me a second time in mind to commend 
him, I'll proceed, and give you this account of him : 
That though 'tis possible he may have had women 
with as good faces as your ladyship's, (no discredit 
to it neither,) yet you must know your cautious 
behaviour, with that reserve in your humour, has 
given him his death's wound ; he mortally hates a 
coquette. He says 'tis impossible to love where 
we cannot esteem ; and that no woman can be 
esteemed by a man who has sense, if she makes 
herself cheap in the eye of a fool ; that pride to a 
woman is as necessary as humility to a divine ; 
and that far-fetched, and dear-bought, is meat for 
gentlemen as well as for ladies ; — in short, that 
every woman who has beauty may set a price upon 
herself, and that by under-selling the market, they 
ruin the trade. This is his doctrine, how do you 
like it ? 

Aman. So well, that since I never intend to have 
a gallant for myself, if I were to recommend one to 
a friend he should be the man. 

Enter Worthy. 

Bless me ! he's here, pray Heaven he did not hear 
me. 

Ber. If he did, it won't hurt your reputation ; 
your thoughts are as safe in his heart as in your 
own. 

Wor. I venture in at an unseasonable time of 
night, ladies ; I hope, if I am troublesome, you'll 
use the same freedom in turning me out again. 

Aman. I believe it can't be late, for Mr. Loveless 
is not come home yet, and he usually keeps good 
hours. 

Wor. Madam, I'm afraid he'll transgress a little 
to-night ; for he told me about half an hour ago he 
was going to sup with some company he doubted 
would keep him out till three or four o'clock in the 
morning, and desired I would let my servant 
acquaint you with it, that you might not expect 
him : but my fellow's a blunder-head ; so lest he 
should make some mistake, I thought it my duty 
to deliver the message myself. 

Aman. I'm very sorry he should give you that 
trouble, sir : but — 

Ber. But since he has, will you give me leave, 
madam, to keep him to play at ombre with us ? 

Aman. Cousin, you know you command my 
house. 

Y 



322 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



Wor. [To Berinthia.] And, madam, you 
know you command me, though I am a very 
wretched gamester. 

Ber. Oh ! you play well enough to lose your 
money, and that's all the ladies require ; so with- 
out any more ceremony, let us go into the next 
room and call for the cards. 

Annan. With all my heart. 

[Exit Worthy, leading Amanda. 

Ber. Well, how this business will end Heaven 
knows ; but she seems to me to be in as fair a way 
— as a boy is to be a rogue, when he's put clerk to 
an attorney. [Exit. 



SCENE III. — Bekinthia's Apartment. 

Enter Loveless cautiously in the dark. 
Love. So, thus far all's well. I'm got into her 
bedchamber, and I think nobody has perceived me 
steal into the house ; my wife don't expect me 
home till four o'clock ; so, if Berinthia comes to 
bed by eleven, I shall have a chase of five hours. 
Let me see, where shall I hide myself ? Under her 
bed ? No ; we shall have her maid searching there 
for something or other ; her closet's a better place, 
and I have a master-key will open it. I'll e'en in 
there, and attack her just when she comes to her 
prayers, that's the most like to prove her critical 
minute, for then the devil will be there to assist 
me. [Retires into the closet, shutting the door after him. 

Enter Berinthia, with a candle in her hand. 
Ber. Well, sure I am the best-natured woman 
in the world, I that love cards so well (there is but 
one thing upon the earth I love better), have pre- 
tended letters to write, to give my friends a tete-a- 
tete : however, I'm innocent, for picquet is the 
game I set 'em to : at her own peril be it, if she 
ventures to play with him at any other. But now 
what shall I do with myself ? I don't know how 
in the world to pass my time ; would Loveless were 
here to badiner a little ! Well, he's a charming 
fellow ; I don't wonder his wife's so fond of him. 
What if I should sit down and think of him till I 
fall asleep, and dream of the Lord knows what ? 
Oh, but then if I should dream we were married, I 
should be frighted out of my wits ! — [Seeing a book.'] 
What's this book ? I think I had best go read. O 
splenetic ! it's a sermon. Well, I'll go into my 
closet and read the Plotting Sisters. — [She opens 
the closet, sees Loveless, and shrieks out.] O 
Lord, a ghost ! a ghost ! a ghost ! a ghost ! 

Re-enter Loveless, running to her. 
Love. Peace, my dear, it's no ghost ; take it in 
your arms, you'll find 'tis worth a hundred of 'em. 
Ber. Run in again ; here's somebody coming. 
[Loveless retires as before. 

Enter Abigail. 

Abig. O Lord, madam ! what's the matter ? 

Ber. O Heavens ! I'm almost frighted out 
of my wits ; I thought verily I had seen a ghost, 
and 'twas nothing but the white curtain, with a 
black hood pinned up against it : you may begone 
again ; I am the fearfullest fool ! [Exit Abigail. 
Re-enter Loveless. 

Love. Is the coast clear ? 

Ber. The coast clear ! I suppose you are clear, 
you'd never play such a trick as this else. 



Love. I am very well pleased with my trick thus 
far, and shall be so till I have played it out, if it 
ben't your fault. Where's my wife ? 

Ber. At cards. 

Love. With whom ? 

Ber. With Worthy. 

Love. Then we are safe enough. 

Ber. You are so ! Some husbands would be 
of another mind, if he were at cards with their 
wives. 

Love. And they'd be in the right on't, too : but 
I dare trust mine. — Besides, I know he's in love 
in another place, and he's not one of those who 
court half-a-dozen at a time. 

Ber. Nay, the truth on't is, you'd pity him if 
you saw how uneasy he is at being engaged with 
us ; but 'twas my malice, I fancied he was to meet 
his mistress somewhere else, so did it to have the 
pleasure of seeing him fret. 

Love. What says Amanda to my staying abroad 
so late ? 

Ber. Why, she's as much out of humour as he ; 
I believe they wish one another at the devil. 

Love. Then I'm afraid they'll quarrel at play, 
and soon throw up the cards. — [Offering to pull 
her into the closet.'] Therefore, my dear, charming 
angel, let us make good use of our time. 

Ber. Heavens ! what do you mean ? 

Love. Pray what do you think I mean ? 

Ber. I don't know. 

Love. I'll show you. 

Ber. You may as well tell me. 

Love. No, that would make you blush worse 
than t'other. 

Ber. Why, do you intend to make me blush ? 

Love. Faith I can't tell that ; but if I do, it 
shall be in the dark. [Pulling her. 

Ber. O Heavens ! I would not be in the dark 
with you for all the world ! 

Love. I'll try that. [Puts out the candle. 

Ber. O Lord ! are you mad ? What shall I do 
for light ? 

Love. You'll do as well without it. 

Ber. Why, one can't find a chair to sit down. 

Love. Come into the closet, madam, there's 
moonshine upon the couch. 

Ber. Nay, never pull, for I will not go. 

Love. Then you must be carried. 

[Takes her in his arms. 

Ber. [ Very softly.] Help ! help ! I'm ravished ! 
ruined ! undone ! O Lord, I shall never be able 
to bear it ! [Exit Loveless, carrying Berinthia. 



SCENE IV. — A Room in Sir Tunbelly 

Clumsey's House. 
Enter Miss Hoyden, Nurse, Tom Fashion, and Bull. 

Fash. This quick despatch of yours, Mr. Bull, 
I take so kindly, it shall give you a claim to my 
favour as long as I live, I do assure you. 

Hoyd. And to mine, too, I promise you. 

Bull. I most humbly thank your honours ; and 
I hope, since it has been my lot to join you in the 
holy bands of wedlock, you will so well cultivate 
the soil, which I have craved a blessing on, that 
your children may swarm about you like bees about 
a honeycomb. 

Hoyd. Ecod, with all my heart ; the more th.e 
merrier, I say ; ha, nurse ! 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



328 



Enter Lory ; he takes his master hastily aside. 
Lory. One word with you, for Heaven's sake ! 

Fash. What the devil's the matter ? 

Lory. Sir, your fortune's ruined ; and I don't 
think your life's worth a quarter of an hour's 
purchase. Yonder's your brother arrived with two 
coaches and six horses, twenty footmen and pages, 
a coat worth four-score pound, and a periwig down 
to his knees : so judge what will become of your 
lady's heart. 

Fash. Death and furies ! 'tis impossible ! 
Lory. Fiends and spectres ! sir, 'tis true. 

Fash. Is he in the house yet ? 

Ijory. No, they are capitulating with him at the 
gate. The porter tells him he's come to run away 
with Miss Hoyden, and has cocked the blunderbuss 
at him ; your brother swears Gad damme, they 
are a parcel of clawns, and he has a good mind to 
break off the match ; but they have given the word 
for sir Tunbelly, so I doubt all will come out pre- 
sently. Pray, sir, resolve what you'll do this 
moment, for egad they'll maul you. 

Fash. Stay a little.— [To Miss Hoyden.] My 
dear, here's a troublesome business my man tells 
me of, but don't be frightened, we shall be too hard 
for the rogue. Here's an impudent fellow at the 
gate (not knowing I was come hither incognito) has 
taken my name upon him, in hopes to run away 
with you. 

Hoyd. O the brazen-faced varlet, it's well we 
are married, or maybe we might never have been 
so. 

Fash. [Aside.] Egad, like enough ! — [Aloud.'] 
Prithee, dear doctor, run to sir Tunbelly, and stop 
him from going to the gate before I speak with 
him. 

Bull. I fly, my good lord. [Exit. 

Nurse. An't please your honour, my lady and I 
had best lock ourselves up till the danger be over. 

Fash. Ay, by all means. 

Hoyd. Not so fast, I won't be locked up any 
more. I'm married. 

Fash. Yes, pray my dear do, till we have seized 
this rascal. 

Hoyd. Nay, if you pray me, I'll do anything. 

[Exeunt Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 

Fash. Oh ! here's Sir Tunbelly coming. — Hark 
you, sirrah, things are better than you imagine ; 
the wedding's over. 

Lory. The devil it is, sir ! 

Fash. Not a word, all's safe : but sir Tunbelly 
don't know it, nor must not yet ; so I am resolved 
to brazen the business out, and have the pleasure 
of turning the impostor upon his lordship, which I 
believe may easily be done. 

Enter Sir Tunbelly, Bull, and Servants, armed. 

Fash. Did you ever hear, sir, of so impudent an 
undertaking ? 

Sir Tun. Never, by the mass ! But we'll tickle 
him, I'll warrant him. 

Fash. They tell me, sir, he has a great many 
people with him disguised like servants. 

Sir Tun. Ay, ay, rogues enough ; but I'll soon 
raise the posse upon 'em. 

Fash. Sir, if you'll take my advice, we'll go a 
shorter way to work. I find whoever this spark is, 
he knows nothing of my being privately here ; so if 
you pretend to receive him civilly, he'll enter with- 
out suspicion ; and as soon as he is within the gate, 



we'll whip up the drawbridge upon his back, let fly 
the blunderbuss to disperse his crew, and so com- 
mit him to jail. 

Sir Tun. 'Egad, your lordship is an ingenious 
person, and a very great general ; but shall we kill 
any of 'em or not ? 

Fash. No, no ; fire over their heads only to fright 
'em ; I'll warrant the regiment scours when the 
colonel's a prisoner. 

Sir Tun. Then come along, my boys, and let 
your courage be great — for your danger is but small. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE V, 



-The Gate before Sir Tunbelly 
Clumsey's House. 



Enter Lord Fopptngton, with La Yerole and Servants. 

Lord Fop. A pax of these bumkinly people ! will 
they open the gate, or do they desire I should grow 
at their moat-side like a willow ? — [ To the Porter.] 
Hey, fellow — prithee do me the favour, in as few 
words as thou canst find to express thyself, to tell 
me whether thy master will admit me or not, that 
I may turn about my coach, and be gone. 

Porter. Here's my master himself now at hand, 
he's of age, he'll give you his answer. 

Enter Sir Tunbelly and Servants. 

Sir Tun. My most noble lord, I crave your par- 
don for making your honour wait so long ; but my 
orders to my servants have been to admit nobody 
without my knowledge, for fear of some attempts 
upon my daughter, the times being full of plots 
and roguery. 

Lord Fop. Much caution, I must confess, is a 
sign of great wisdom : but stap my vitals, I have 
got a cold enough to destroy a porter ! — He, hem — 

Sir Tun. I am very sorry for't, indeed, my lord ; 
but if your lordship please to walk in, we'll help 
you to some brown sugar-candy. My lord, I'll 
show you the way. 

Lord Fop. Sir, I follow you with pleasure. 

[Exit with Sir Tunbelly Clumsey. As La Verole and 
the rest are about to follow him in, the Servants 
within clap the door against them. 

Servants. [ Within.'] Nay, hold you me, there sir. 

Ija Ver. Jernie, qu'est-ce que veut dire 5a ? 

Sir Tun. [Within.] Fire, porter. 

Porter. [Fires.] Have among you, my masters. 

La Ver. Ah, je suis mort ! — 

[Runs off with the rest. 

Porter. Not one soldier left by the mass ! 



SCENE VI. — A Hall in the same. 

Enter Sir Tunbelly Clumsey, Bull, Constable, Clerk, 
and Servants, with Lord Foppington, disarmed. 

Sir Tun. Come, bring him along, bring him 
along ! 

Lord Fop. What the pax do you mean, gentle- 
men ! Is it fair-time, that you are all drunk before 
dinner ? 

Sir Tun. Drunk, sirrah ! — Here's an impudent 
rogue for you ! — Drunk or sober, bully, I'm a jus- 
tice of the peace, and know how to deal with 
strollers. 

Lord Fop. Strollers ! 

Sir Tun. Ay, strollers. Come, give an account 
Y 2 



324 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



of yourself ; what's your name, where do you live ? 
do you pay scot and lot ? are you a Williamite, or a 
Jacobite ? Come. 

Lord Fop. And why dost thou ask me so many 
impertinent questions ? 

Sir Tun. Because I'll make you answer 'em 
before I have done with you, you rascal, you ! 

Lord Fop. Before Gad, all the answer I can 
make thee to 'em, is, that thou art a very extraor* 
dinary old fellow ; stap my vitals ! 

Sir Tun. Nay, if you are for joking with deputy 
lieutenants, we know how to deal with you. — [To 
Clerk.] Here, draw a warrant for him immediately. 

Lord Fop. A warrant ! — What the devil is't thou 
wouldst be at, old gentleman ? 

Sir Tun. I would be at you, sirrah, (if my hands 
were not tied as a magistrate,) and with these two 
double fists beat your teeth down your throat, you 
dog you ! 

Lord Fop. And why wouldst thou spoil my face 
at that rate ? 

Sir Tun. for your design to rob me of my 
daughter, villain. 

Lord Fop. Rab thee of thy daughter ! — Now I 
do begin to believe I am a-bed and a-sleep, and 
that all this is but a dream. — Tf it be, 'twill be an 
agreeable surprise enough, to waken by and by ; 
and instead of the impertinent company of a nasty 
country justice, find myself perhaps in the arms of 
a woman of quality — [ To Sir Tunbelly.] Pri- 
thee, old father, wilt thou give me leave to ask thee 
one question ? 

Sir Tun. I can't tell whether I will or not, till 
I know what it is. 

Lord Fop. Why, then it is, whether thou didst 
not write to my Lord Foppington to come down 
and marry thy daughter ? 

Sir Tun. Yes, marry did I ; and my Lord Fop- 
pington is come down, and shall marry my daughter 
before she's a day older. 

Lord Fop. Now give me thy hand, dear dad ; I 
thought we should understand one another at last. 

Sir Tun. This fellow's mad. — Here, bind him 
hand and foot. [Servants bind him clown. 

Lord Fop. Nay, prithee, knight, leave fooling ; 
thy jest begins to grow dull. 

Sir Tun. Bind him, I say, he's mad. — Bread 
and water, a dark room and a whip may bring him 
to his senses again. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] Egad ! if I don't waken 
quickly, by all I can see, this is like to prove one 
of the most impertinent dreams that ever I 
dreamt in my life. 

Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 

Hoyd. [Going up to him.~\ Is this he that would 
have run away with me ? Fo ! how he stinks of 
sweets ! — Pray, father, let him be dragged through 
the horse-pond. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.'] This must be my wife by 
her natural inclination to her husband. 

Hoyd. Pray, father, what do you intend to do 
with him ? hang him ? 

Sir Tun. That at least, child. 

Nurse. Ay, and it's e'en too good for him too. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] Madame la governante, I 
presume. Hitherto this appears to me to be one 
of the most extraordinary families that ever man 
of quality matched into. 

Sir Tun. What's become of my lord, daughter ? 



Hoyd. He's just coming, sir. 
Lord Fop. [Aside.] My lord ! what does he 
mean by that now ? 

Enter Tom Fashion and Lory. 

[Aloud.] Stap my vitals, Tarn ! now the dream's 
out. 

Fash. Is this the fellow, sir, that designed to 
trick me of your daughter ? 

Sir Tun. This is he, my lord, how do you like 
him ? Is not he a pretty fellow to get a fortune ? 

Fash. I find by his dress he thought your daugh- 
ter might be taken with a beau. 

Hoyd. gemini ! Is this a beau ? let me see 
him again. — Ha ! I find a beau's no such ugly 
thing neither. 

Fash. [Aside.] Egad, she'll be in love with him 
presently; I'll e'en have him sent away to jail. — 
[To Lord Foppington.] Sir, though your under- 
taking shows you are a person of no extraordinary 
modesty, I suppose you han't confidence enough 
to expect much favour from me ? 

Lord Fop. Strike me dumb, Tarn, thou art a 
very impudent fellow ! 

Nurse. Look, if the varlet has not the frontery 
to call his lordship plain Thomas ! 

Bull. The business is, he would feign himself 
mad, to avoid going to jail. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] That must be the chaplain 
by his unfolding of mysteries. 

Sir Tun. Come, is the warrant writ ? 

Clerk. Yes, sir. 

Sir Tun. Give me the pen, I'll sign it. — So, 
now, constable, away with him. 

Lord Fop. Hold one moment, pray, gentlemen. 
— My Lord Foppington, shall I beg one word with 
your lordship ? 

Nurse. O ho, is't my lord with him now ? See 
how afflictions will humble folks. 

Hoyd. Pray, my lord, don't let him whisper too 
close, lest he bite your ear off. 

Lord Fop. I am not altogether so hungry as 
your ladyship is pleased to imagine. — [Aside to 
Tom Fashion.] Look you, Tarn, I am sensible 
I have not been so kind to you as I ought, but I 
hope you'll forget what's past, and accept of the 
five thousand pounds I offer ; thou mayst live in 
extreme splendour with it, stap my vitals ! 

Fash. It's a much easier matter to prevent a 
disease than to cure it ; a quarter of that sum 
would have secured your mistress; twice as much 
won't redeem her. [Leaving him. 

Sir Tun. Well, what says he ? 

Fash. Only the rascal offered me a bribe to let 
him go. 

Sir Tun. Ay, he shall go, with a pox to him ! — 
Lead on, constable. 

Lord Fop. One word more, and I have done. 

Sir Tun. Before Gad ! thou art an impudent 
fellow, to trouble the court at this rate after thou 
art condemned ; but speak once for all. 

Lord Fop. Why, then, once for all ; I have at 
last luckily called to mind that there is a gentle- 
man of this country, who I believe cannot live far 
from this place, if he were here, would satisfy you. 
I am Navelty, baron of Foppington, with five 
thousand pounds a year, and that fellow there a 
rascal, not worth a groat. 

Sir Tun. Very well ; now, who is this honest 
gentleman you are so well acquainted with ? — ■ 



SCENE VI. 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



325 



[To Tom Fashion.] Come, sir, we shall hamper 
him. 

Lord Fop. 'Tis sir John Friendly. 

Sir Tun. So; he lives within half a mile, and 
came down into the country but last night ; this 
bold-faced fellow thought he had been at Lon- 
don still, and so quoted him ; now we shall display 
him in his colours : I'll send for Sir John imme- 
diately. — [To a Servant.] Here, fellow, away pre- 
sently, and desire my neighbour he'll do me the 
favour to step over, upon an extraordinary occa- 
sion. — [Exit Servant.] And in the meanwhile you 
had best secure this sharper in the gate-house. 

Constable. An't please your worship, he may 
chance to give us the slip thence. If I were 
worthy to advise, I think the dog-kennel's a surer 
place. 

Sir Tun. With all my heart ; anywhere. 

Lord Fop. Nay, for Heaven's sake, sir ! do me 
the favour to put me in a clean room, that I mayn't 
daub my clothes. 

Sir Tun. O, when you have married my daugh- 
ter, her estate will afford you new ones. — Away 
with him ! 

Lord Fop. A dirty country justice is a barbarous 
magistrate, stap my vitals ! 

[Exit Constable with Lord Foppington. 

Fash. [Aside.] Egad, I must prevent this 
knight's coming, or the house will grow soon too 
hot to hold me. — [ To Sir Tunbelly.] Sir, I fancy 
'tis not worth while to trouble sir John upon this 
impertinent fellow's desire : I'll send and call the 
messenger back. 

Sir Tun. Nay, with all my heart ; for, to be 
sure, he thought he was far enough off,' or the 
rogue would never have named him. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Ser. Sir, I met sir John just lighting at the 
gate ; he's come to wait upon you. 

Sir Tun. Nay, then, it happens as one could 
wish. 

Fash. [Aside.'] The devil it does ! — Lory, you 
see how things are, here will be a discovery pre- 
sently, and we shall have our brains beat out; for 
my brother will be sure to swear he don't know me: 
therefore, run into the stable, take the two first 
horses you can light on, I'll slip out at the back 
door, and we'll away immediately. 

Lory. What, and leave your lady, sir ? 

Fash. There's no danger in that as long as I 
have taken possession ; I shall know how to treat 
with 'em well enough, if once I am out of their 
reach. Away ! I'll steal after thee. 

[Exit Lory ; his master follows him out at one door as 
Sir John Friendly is entering at the other. 

Enter Sir John Friendly. 

Sir Tun. Sir John, you are the welcomest man 
alive ; I had just sent a messenger to desire you'd 
step over, upon a very extraordinary occasion. 
We are all in arms here. 

Sir John. How so ? 

Sir Tun. Why, you must know, a finical sort of 
a tawdry fellow here (I don't know who the devil 
he is, not I) hearing, I suppose, that the match 
was concluded between my Lord Foppington and 
my girl Hoyden, comes impudently to the gate, 
and with a whole pack of rogues in liveries, and 
would have passed upon me for his lordship : but 
what does I ? I comes up to him boldly at the 



head of his guards, takes him by the throat, strikes 
up his heels, binds him hand and foot, despatches 
a warrant, and commits him prisoner to the dog- 
kennel. 

Sir John. So ; but how do you know but this 
was my lord ? for I was told he set out from Lon- 
don the day before me, with a very fine retinue, 
and intended to come directly hither. 

Sir Tun. Why, now to show you how many 
lies people raise in that damned town, he came 
two nights ago post, with only one servant, and is 
now in the house with me. But you don't know 
the cream of the jest yet ; this same rogue, (that 
lies yonder neck and heels among the hounds,) 
thinking you were out of the country, quotes you 
for his acquaintance, and said if you were here, 
you'd justify him to be Lord Foppington, and I 
know not what. 

Sir John. Pray will you let me see him? 

Sir Tun. Ay, that you shall presently — [To a 
Servant.] Here, fetch the prisoner. 

[Exit Servant. 

Sir John. I wish there ben't some mistake in 
the business. — Where's my lord ? I know him very 
well. 

Sir Tun. He was here just now. — [To Bull.] 
See for him, doctor, tell him Sir John is here to 
wait upon him. [Exit Bull. 

Sir John. I hope, sir Tunbelly, the young lady 
is not married yet. 

Sir Tun. No, things won't be ready this week. 
But why do you say you hope she is not married ? 

Sir John. Some foolish fancies only, perhaps 
I'm mistaken. 

Re-enter Bull. 

Bull. Sir, his lordship is just rid out to take the 
air. 

Sir Tun. To take the air ! Is that his London 
breeding, to go take the air when gentlemen come 
to visit him ? 

Sir John. 'Tis possible he might want it, he 
might not be well, some sudden qualm perhaps. 

Re-enter Constable, with Lord Foppington. 

Lord Fop. Stap my vitals, I'll have satisfaction! 

Sir John. [Running to him.] My dear lord 
Foppington ! 

Lord Fop. Dear Friendly, thou art come in the 
critical minute, strike me dumb ! 

Sir John. Why, I little thought to have found 
you in fetters. 

Lord Fop. Why truly the world must do me 
the justice to confess, I do use to appear a little 
more degage : but this old gentleman, not liking 
the freedom of my air, has been pleased to skewer 
down my arms like a rabbit. 

Sir Tun. Is it then possible that this should be 
the true Lord Foppington at last ? 

Lord Fop. Why, what do you see in his face to 
make you doubt of it ? Sir, without presuming to 
have any extraordinary opinion of my figure, give 
me leave to tell you, if you had seen as many lords 
as I have done, you would not think it impossible 
a person of a worse taille than mine might be a 
modern man of quality. 

Sir Tun. Unbind him, slaves. — My lord, I'm 
struck dumb, I can only beg pardon by signs ; but 
if a sacrifice will appease you, you shall have it. — 
Here, pursue this Tartar, bring him back. — Away, 
I say ! — A dog ! Oons, I'll cut off his ears a 



326 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



ACT V. 



his tail, I'll draw out all his teeth, pull his skin 
over his head — and — and what shall I do more ? 

Sir John. He does indeed deserve to be made 
an example of. 

Lord Fop. He does deserve to be chartre, stap 
my vitals ! 

Sir Tun. May I then hope I have your honour's 
pardon ? 

Lord Fop. Sir, we courtiers do nothing without 
a bribe : that fair young lady might do miracles. 

Sir Tun. Hoyden ! come hither, Hoyden. 

Lord Fop. Hoyden is her name, sir ? 

Sir Tun. Yes, my lord. 

Lord Fop. The prettiest name for a song I ever 
heard. 

Sir Tun. My lord — here's my girl, she's yours, 
she has a wholesome body, and a virtuous mind ; 
she's a woman complete, both in flesh and in spirit ; 
she has a bag of milled crowns, as scarce as they 
are, and fifteen hundred a year stitched fast to her 
tail. — So, go thy ways, Hoyden. 

Lord Fop. Sir, I do receive her like a gentleman. 

Sir Tun. Then,I'm ahappyman. IblessHeaven, 
and if your lordship will give me leave, I will, like a 
good Christian at Christmas, be very drunk byway of 
thanksgiving. Come, my noble peer, I believe din- 
ner's ready ; if your honour pleases to follow me, I'll 
lead you on to the attack of a venison-pasty. [Exit. 

Lord Fop. Sir, I wait upon you.— -Will your 
ladyship do me the favour of your little finger, 
madam ? 

Hoyd. My lord, I'll follow you presently, I have 
a little business with my nurse. 

Lord Fop. Your ladyship's most humble ser- 
vant. — Come, sir John ; the ladies have des affaires. 
[Exit with Sir John Friendly. 



Hoyd. So, nurse, we are finely brought to bed ! 
what shall we do now ? 

Nurse. Ah, dear miss, we are all undone ! Mr. 
Bull, you were used to help a woman to a remedy. 

[Crying. 

Bull. A lack-a-day ! but it's past my skill now, 
I can do nothing. 

Nurse. Who would have thought that ever \ our 
invention should have been drained so dry ? 

Hoyd. Well, I have often thought old folks fools, 
and now I'm sure they are so ; I have found a way 
myself to secure us all. 

Nurse. Dear lady, what's that ? 

Hoyd. Why, if you two will be sure to hold your 
tongues, and not say a word of what's past, I'll e'en 
marry this lord too. 

Nurse. What ! two husbands, my dear ? 

Hoyd. Why you had three, good nurse, you may 
hold your tongue. 

Nurse. Ay, but not altogether, sweet child. 

Hoyd. Psha ! if you had, you'd ne'er a thought 
much on't. 

Nurse. Oh, but 'tis a sin, sweeting ! 

Bull. Nay, that's my business to speak to, 
nurse. — I do confess, to take two husbands for the 
satisfaction of the flesh, is to commit the sin of 
exorbitancy ; but to do it for the peace of the 
spirit, is no more than to be drunk by way of physic. 
Besides, to prevent a parent's wrath, is to avoid 
the sin of disobedience ; for when the parent 's 
angry, the child is froward. So that upon the 
whole matter, I do think, though miss should marry 
again, she may be saved. 

Hoyd. Ecod, and I will marry again then ! and 
so there is an end of the story. [Exeunt. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. — Tom Fashion's Lodgings. 
Enter Coupler, Tom Fashion, and Lory. 

Coup. Well, and so sir John coming in — 

Fash. And so sir John coming in, I thought it 
might be manners in me to go out, which I did, 
and getting on horseback as fast as I could, rid 
away as if the devil had been at the rear of me. 
What has happened since, Heaven knows. 

Coup. Egad, sirrah, I know as well as Heaven 

Fash. What do you know ? 

Coup. That you are a cuckold. 

Fash. The devil I am ! By who ? 

Coup. By your brother. 

Fash. My brother ! which way ? 

Coup. The old way ; he has lain with your wife. 

Fash. Hell and furies ! what dost thou mean ? 

Coup. I mean plainly ; I speak no parable. 

Fash. Plainly ! thou dost not speak common 
sense, I cannot understand one word thou sayest. 

Coup. You will do soon, youngster. In short, 
you left your wife a widow, and she married again. 

Fash. It's a lie. 

Coup. Ecod, if I were a young fellow, I'd break 
your head, sirrah. 

Fash. Dear dad, don't be angry, for I'm as mad 
as Tom of Bedlam. 



Coup. When I had fitted you with a wife, you 
should have kept her. 

Fash. But is it possible the young strumpet 
could play me such a trick ? 

Coup. A young strumpet, sir, can play twenty 
tricks. 

Fash. But prithee instruct me a little farther ; 
whence comes thy intelligence ? 

Coup. From your brother, in this letter ; there, 
you may read it. 

Fash. [Reads."] 

Dear Coupler, — / have only time to tell thee 
in three lines, or thereabouts, that here has been 
the devil. That rascal Tarn, having stole the 
letter thou hadst formerly writ for me to bring to 
sir Tunbelly, formed a damnable design upon my 
mistress, and was in a fair way of success when I 
arrived. But after having suffered some indigni- 
ties (in which I have all daubed my embroidered 
coat) I put him to flight. I sent out a party of 
horse after him, in hopes to have made him my 
prisoner, which if I had done I would have quali- 
fied him for the seraglio, stap my vitals ' 

The danger I have thus narrowly escaped, has 
made me fortify myself against further attempts, 
by entering immediately into an association with 



SCENE II. 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



327 



the young lady, by which we engage to stand by 
one another as long as we both shall live. 

In short, the papers are sealed, and the contract 
is signed, so the business of the lawyer is acheve ; 
but I defer the divine part of the thing till I arrive 
at London, not being willing to consummate in 
any other bed but my own. 

Postscript, 
'Tis possible I may be in the tawn as soon as 
this letter, far I find the lady is so violently in 
love with me, I have determined to make her 
happy with all the despatch that is practicable, 
without disardering my coach-harses. 

So, here's rare work, i'faith ! 

Lory. Egad, Miss Hoyden has laid about her 
bravely ! 

Coup. I think my country-girl has played her 
part as well as if she had been born and bred in 
St. James's parish. 

Fash. That rogue the chaplain ! 

Lory. And then that jade the nurse, sir ! 

Fash. And then that drunken sot Lory, sir ! that 
could not keep himself sober to be a witness to the 
marriage. 

Lory. Sir — with respect — I know very few 
drunken sots that do keep themselves sober. 

Fash. Hold your prating, sirrah, or I'll break 
your head ! — Dear Coupler, what's to be done ? 

Coup. Nothing's to be done till the bride and 
bridegroom come to town. 

Fash. Bride and bridegroom ! death and furies ! 
I can't bear that thou shouldst call 'em so. 

Coup, Why, what shall I call 'em, dog and cat ? 

Fash. Not for the world, that sounds more like 
man and wife than t'other. 

Coup. Well, if you'll hear of 'em in no lan- 
guage, we'll leave 'em for the nurse and the 
chaplain. 

Fash. The devil and the witch ! 

Coup. When they come to town — 

Lory. We shall have stormy weather. 

Coup. Will you hold your tongues, gentlemen, 
or not ? 

Lory. Mum ! 

Coup. I say when they come, we must find 
what stuff they are made of, whether the church- 
man be chiefly composed of the flesh, or the spirit ; 
I presume the former. For as chaplains now go, 'tis 
probable he eats three pound of beef to the reading 
of one chapter. — This gives him carnal desires, he 
wants money, preferment, wine, a whore ; therefore 
we must invite him to supper, give him fat capons, 
sack and sugar, a purse of gold, and a plump sister. 
Let this be done, and I'll warrant thee, my boy, 
he speaks truth like an oracle. 

Fash. Thou are a profound statesman I allow it ; 
but how shall we gain the nurse ? 

Coup. Oh ! never fear the nurse, if once you have 
got the priest ; for the devil always rides the hag. 
Well, there's nothing more to be said of the matter 
at this time, that I know of; so let us go and 
inquire if there's any news of our people yet, 
perhaps they may be come. But let me tell you 
one thing by the way, sirrah, I doubt you have 
been an idle fellow ; if thou hadst behaved thyself 
as thou shouldst have done, the girl would never 
have left thee. \Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Berinthia's Apartment. 
Enter Abigail, crossing the stage, followed by Worth y. 

Wor. Hem, Mrs. Abigail ! is your mistress to be 
spoken with ? 

Abig. By you, sir, I believe she may. 

Wor. Why 'tis by me I would have her spoken 
with. 

Abig. I'll acquaint her, sir. \_~Exit. 

Wor. One lift more I must persuade her to give 
me, and then I'm mounted. Well, a young bawd, 
and a handsome one for my money ; 'tis they do 
the execution ; I'll never go to an old one, but 
when I have occasion for a witch. Lewdness looks 
heavenly to a woman, when an angel appears in 
its cause ; but when a hag is advocate, she thinks 
it comes from the devil. An old woman has 
something so terrible in her looks, that whilst she 
is persuading your mistress to forget she has a 
soul, she stares hell and damnation full in her face. 

Enter Bbrinthia. 

Ber. Well, sir, what news bring you ? 

Wor. No news, madam ; there's a woman going 
to cuckold her husband. 

Ber. Amanda ! 

Wor. I hope so. 

Ber. Speed her well ! 

Wor. Ay, but there must be more than a God- 
speed, or your charity won't be worth a farthing. 

Ber. Why, han't I done enough already ? 

Wor. Not quite. 

Ber. What's the matter ? 

Wor. The lady has a scruple still, which you 
must remove. 

Ber. What's that ? 

Wor. Her virtue — she says. 

Ber. And do you believe her ? 

Wor. No, but I believe it's what she takes for 
her virtue ; it's some relics of lawful love. She is 
not yet fully satisfied her husband has got another 
mistress ; which unless I can convince her of, I 
have opened the trenches in vain ; for the breach 
must be wider, before I dare storm the town. 

Ber. And so I'm to be your engineer ? 

Wor. I'm sure you know best how to manage 
the battery. 

Ber. What think you of springing a mine ? I have 
a thought just now come into my head, how to 
blow her up at once. 

Wor. That would be a thought indeed. 

Ber. Faith, I'll do't ; and thus the execution of 
it shall be. We are all invited to my lord Fopping- 
ton's to-night to supper ; he's come to town with 
his bride, and maketh a ball, with an entertainment 
of music. Now, you must know, my undoer here, 
Loveless, says he must needs meet me about some 
private business (I don't know what 'tis) before 
we go to the company. To which end he has told 
his wife one lie, and I have told her another. But 
to make her amends, I'll go immediately, and tell 
her a solemn truth. 

Wor. What's that ? 

Ber. Why, I'll tell her, that to my certain know- 
ledge her husband has a rendezvous with bis 
mistress this afternoon ; and that if she'll give me 
her word, she will be satisfied with the discovery, 
without making any violent inquiry after the woman, 
I'll direct her to a place where she shall see 'em 



328 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



ACT V. 



meet. Now, friend, this I fancy may help you to 
a critical minute. For home she must go again to 
dress. You (with your good breeding) come to 
wait upon us to the ball, find her all alone, her 
spirit inflamed against her husband for his treason, 
and her flesh in a heat from some contemplations 
upon the treachery, her blood on a fire, her con- 
science in ice ; a lover to draw, and the devil to 
drive. — Ah, poor Amanda ! 

Wor. [Kneeling.'] Thou angel of light, let me 
fall down and adore thee ! 

Ber. Thou minister of darkness, get up again, 
for I hate to see the devil at his devotions. 

Wor. Well, my incomparable Berinthia, how 
shall I requite you ! 

Ber. Oh, ne'er trouble yourself about that : 
virtue is its own reward. There's a pleasure in 
doing good, which sufficiently pays itself. Adieu ! 

Wor. Farewell, thou best of women ! 

{Exeunt severally. 

Enter Amanda meeting Berinthia. 

Aman. Who was that went from you ? 

Ber. A friend of yours. 

Aman. What does he want ? 

Ber. Something you might spare him, and be 
ne'er the poorer. 

Aman. I can spare him nothing but my friend- 
ship ; my lovealready's all disposed of: though, I 
confess, to one ungrateful to my bounty. 

Ber. Why, there's the mystery ! You have been 
so bountiful, you have cloyed him. Fond wives do 
by their husbands, as barren wives do by their 
lapdogs ; cram 'em with sweetmeats till they spoil 
their stomachs. 

Aman. Alas ! had you but seen how passionately 
fond he has been since our last reconciliation, you 
would have thought it were impossible he ever 
should have breathed an hour without me. 

Ber. Ay, but there you thought wrong again, 
Amanda ; you should consider, that in matters of 
love men's eyes are always bigger than their 
bellies. They have violent appetites, 'tis true, 
but they have soon dined. 

Aman. Well ; there's nothing upon earth 
astonishes me more than men's inconstancy. 

Ber. Now there's nothing upon earth astonishes 
me less, when I consider what they and we are 
composed of: for nature has made them children, 
and us babies. Now, Amanda, how we used our 
babies you may remember. We were mad to 
have them as soon as we saw them ; kissed them 
to pieces as soon as we got them ; then pulled off 
their clothes, saw them naked, and so threw them 
away. 

Aman. But do you think all men are of this 
temper ? 

Ber. All but one. 

Aman. Who's that ? 

Ber. Worthy. 

Aman. Why, he's weary of his wife too, you see. 

Ber. Ay, that's no proof. 

Aman. What can be a greater ? 

Ber. Being weary of his mistress. 

Aman. Don't you think 'twere possible he 
might give you that too ? 

Ber. Perhaps he might, if he were my gallant ; 
not if he were yours. 

Aman. Why do you think he should be more 



constant to me than be would to you ? I'm sure 
I'm not so handsome. 

Ber. Kissing goes by favour ; he likes you best. 

Aman. Suppose he does : that's no demonstra- 
tion he would be constant to me. 

Ber. No, that I'll grant you : but there are 
other reasons to expect it. For you must know 
after all, Amanda, the inconstancy we commonly 
see in men of brains, does not so much proceed 
from the uncertainty of their temper, as from the 
misfortunes of their love. A man sees perhaps a 
hundred women he likes well enough for an 
intrigue, and away ; but possibly, through the 
whole course of his life, does not find above one 
who is exactly what he could wish her : now her, 
'tis a thousand to one, he never gets. Either she 
is not to be had at all (though that seldom happens, 
you'll say), or he wants those opportunities that 
are necessary to gain her ; either she likes some- 
body else much better than him, or uses him like 
a dog, because he likes nobody so well as her. 
Still something or other Fate claps in the way 
between them and the women they are capable of 
being fond of : and this makes them wander about 
from mistress to mistress, like a pilgrim from town 
to town, who every night must have a fresh lodg- 
ing, and's in haste to be gone in the morning. 

Aman. 'Tis possible there may be something in 
what you say ; but what do you infer from it as 
to the man we are talking of ? 

Ber. Why, I infer, that you being the woman 
in the world the most to his humour, 'tis not 
likely he would quit you for one that is less. 

Aman. That is not to be depended upon, for 
you see Mr. Loveless does so. 

Ber. What does Mr. Loveless do ? 

Aman. Why, he runs after something for 
variety I'm sure he does not like so well as he 
does me. 

Ber. That's more than you know, madam. 

Aman. No, I'm sure on't. I am not very vain, 
Berinthia, and yet I'll lay my life, if I could look 
into his heart, he thinks I deserve to be preferred 
to a thousand of her. 

Ber. Don't be too positive in that neither ; a 
million to one but she has the same opinion of 
you. What would you give to see her ? 

Aman. Hang her, dirty trull ! — Though I really 
believe she's so ugly she'd cure me of my jealousy. 

Ber. All the men of sense about town say she's 
handsome. 

Aman. They are as often out in those things as 
any people. 

Ber. Then I'll give you further proof — all the 
women about town say she's a fool. Now I hope 
you're convinced ? 

Aman. Whate'er she be, I'm satisfied he does 
not like her well enough to bestow anything more 
than a little outward gallantry upon her. 

Ber. Outward gallantry ! — [Aside.] I can't 
bear this.— [Aloud.] Don't you think she's a 
woman to be fobbed off so. Come, I'm too much 
your friend to suffer you should be thus grossly 
imposed upon by a man who does not deserve the 
least part about you, unless he knew how to set a 
greater value upon it. Therefore, in one word, to 
my certain knowledge, he is to meet her now, 
within a quarter of an hour, somewhere about that 
Babylon of wickedness, Whitehall. And if you'll 
give me your word, that you'll be content with 



SCENE III. 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



329 



seeing her masked in his hand, without pulling her 
headclothes off, I'll step immediately to the person 
from whom I have my intelligence, and send you 
word whereabouts you may stand to see 'em meet. 
My Mend and I'll watch 'em from another place, 
and dodge 'em to their private lodging; but don't 
you offer to follow 'em, lest you do it awkwardly, 
and spoil all. I'll come home to you again as 
soon as I have earthed 'em, and give you an account 
in what corner of the house the scene of their 
lewdness lies. 

Aman. If you can do this, Berinthia, he's a 
villain. 

Ber. I can't help that ; men will be so. 

Aman. Well, I'll follow your directions, for I 
shall never rest till I know the worst of this 
matter. 

Ber. Pray, go immediately and get yourself 
ready then. Put on some of your woman's clothes, 
a great scarf and a mask, and you shall presently 
receive orders. — [Calls.] Here, who's there ? get 
me a chair quickly. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. There are chairs at the door, madam. 

Ber. 'Tis well; I'm coming. [Exit Servant. 

Aman. But pray, Berinthia, before you go, tell 
me how I may know this filthy thing, if she should 
be so forward (as I suppose she will) to come to 
the rendezvous first ; for methinks I would fain 
view her a little. 

Ber. Why, she's about my height ; and very 
well shaped. 

Aman. I thought she had been a little crooked ? 

Ber. O no, she's as straight as I am. But we 
lose time ; come away. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— Tom Fashion's Lodgings. 
Enter Tom Fashion, meeting Lory. 

Fash. Well, will the doctor come ? 

Lory. Sir, I sent a porter to him as you ordered 
me. He found him with a pipe of tobacco and a 
great tankard of ale, which he said he would de- 
spatch while I could tell three, and be here. 

Fash. He does not suspect 'twas I that sent for 
him ? 

Lory. Not a jot, sir ; he divines as little for 
himself as he does for other folks. 

Fash. Will he bring nurse with him ? 

Lory. Yes. 

Fash. That's well ; where's Coupler ? 

Lory. He's half way up the stairs taking breath ; 
he must play his bellows a little, before he can get 
to the top. 

Enter Coupler. 

Fash. Oh here he is.— Well, Old Phthisic, the 
doctor's coming. 

Coup. Would the pox had the doctor ! — I'm 
quite out of wind — [To Lory.] Set me a chair, 
sirrah. Ah! — [Sits down.] — [To Tom Fashion.] 
Why the plague canst not thou lodge upon the 
ground-floor ? 

Fash. Because I love to lie as near heaven as I 
can. 

Coup. Prithee, let heaven alone ; ne'er affect 
tending that way : thy centre's downwards. 

Fash. That's impossible ! I have too much 
ill luck in this world to be damned in the next. 

Coup. Thou art out in thy logic. Thy major is 



true, but thy minor is false ; for thou art the luck- 
iest fellow in the universe. 

Fash. Make out that. 

Coup. I'lldo't: last night the devil ran away 
with the parson of Fatgoose living. 

Fash. If he had run away with the parish too, 
what's that to me ? 

Coup. I'll tell thee what it's to thee. — This 
living is worth five hundred pounds a-year, and 
the presentation of it is thine, if thou canst prove 
thyself a lawful husband to Miss Hoyden. 

Fash. Sayest thou so, my protector ? Then, 
egad, I shall have a brace of evidences here pre- 
sently. 

Coup. The nurse and the doctor ? 

Fash. The same. The devil himself won't have 
interest enough to make 'em withstand it. 

Coup. That we shall see presently. — Here they 
come. 

Enter Nurse and Bull ; they start back, seeing Tom 
Fashion. 

Nurse. Ah, goodness, Roger, we are betrayed ! 

Fash. [Laying hold of them.] Nay, nay, ne'er 
flinch for the matter, for I have you safe. — Come 
to your trials immediately ; I have no time to give 
you copies of your indictment. There sits your 
judge. 

Both. [Kneeling.] Pray, sir, have compassion 
on us. 

Nurse. I hope, sir, my years will move your 
pity ; I am an aged woman. 

Coup. That is a moving argument indeed. — 
[To Bull.] Are not you a rogue of sanctity ? 

Bull. Sir (with respect to my function), I do 
wear a gown. I hope, sir, my character will be 
considered ; I am Heaven's ambassador. 

Coup. Did not you marry this vigorous young 
fellow to a plump young buxom wench ? 

Nurse. [Aside to Bull.] D-on't confess, Roger, 
unless you are hard put to it indeed. 

Coup. Come, out with't ! — Now is he chewing 
the cud of his roguery, and grinding a lie between 
his teeth. 

Bull. Sir, I cannot positively say — I say, sir, 
positively I cannot say — 

Coup. Come, no equivocation, no Roman turns 
upon us. Consider thou standest upon protestant 
ground, which will slip from under thee like a 
Tyburn cart ; for in this country we have always 
ten hangmen for one Jesuit. 

Bull. [To Tom Fashion.] Pray, sir, then will 
you but permit me to speak one word in private 
with nurse ? 

Fash. Thou art always for doing something in 
private with nurse. 

Coup. But pray let his betters be served before 
him for once : I would do something in private 
with her myself. — Lory, take care of this reverend 
gownman in the next room a little. — Retire, priest. 
— [Exit Lory with Bull.] Now, virgin, I must 
put the matter home to you a little : do you think 
it might not be possible to make you speak truth ? 

Nurse. Alas, sir ! I don't know what you mean 
by truth. 

Coup. Nay, 'tis possible thou mayest be a 
stranger to it. 

Fash. Come, nurse, you and I were bettei 
friends when we saw one another last ; and I still 
believe you are a very good woman in the bottom. 
I did deceive you and your young lady, 'tis true, 



330 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



but I always designed to make a very good husband 
to her, and to be a very good friend to you. And 
'tis possible, in the end, she might have found her- 
self happier, and you richer, than ever my brother 
will make you. 

Nurse. Brother ! why is your worship then his 
lordship's brother ? 

Fash. I am ; which you should have known, if 
I durst have stayed to have told you ; but I was 
forced to take horse a little in haste, you know. 

Nurse. You were indeed, sir : poor young man, 
how he was bound to scaure for't ! Now won't 
your worship be angry, if I confess the truth to 
you ? — When I found you were a cheat (with 
respect be 'it spoken), I verily believed miss had 
got some pitiful skip-jack varlet or other to her 
husband, or I had ne'er let her think of marrying 
again. 

Coup. But where was your conscience all this 
while, woman ? did not that stare you in the face 
with huge saucer- eyes, and a great horn upon the 
forehead ? Did not you think you should be 
damned for such a sin ? — Ha ! 

Fash. Well said, divinity ! press that home 
upon her. 

Nurse. Why, in good truly, sir, I had some 
fearful thoughts on't, and could never be brought 
to consent, till Mr. Bull said it was a peckadilla, 
and he'd secure my soul for a tithe-pig. 

Fash. There was a rogue for you ! 

Coup. And he shall thrive accordingly ; he shall 
have a good living. — Come, honest nurse, I see 
you have butter in your compound ; you can melt. 
Some compassion you can have of this handsome 
young fellow. 

Nurse. I have, indeed, sir. 

Fash. Why, then I'll tell you what you shall do 
for me. You know what a warm living here is 
fallen ; and that it must be in the disposal of him 
who has the disposal of miss. Now if you and the 
doctor will agree to prove my marriage, I'll pre- 
sent him to it, upon condition he makes you his 
bride. 

Nurse. Naw the blessing of the Lord follow 
your good worship both by night and by day ! — 
Let him be fetched in by the ears ; I'll soon bring 
his nose to the grindstone. 

Coup. [Aside.'] Well said, old white-leather ! 
— [Aloud.] Hey, bring in the prisoner there ! 

Re-enter Lory with Bull. 

Coup. Come, advance, holy man. Here's your 
duck does not think fit to retire with you into the 
chancel at this time ; but she has a proposal to 
make to you in the face of the congregation. — 
Come, nurse, speak for yourself, you are of 
age. 

Nurse. Roger, are not you a wicked man, Roger, 
to set your strength against a weak woman, and 
persuade her it was no sin to conceal miss's nup- 
tials ? My conscience flies in my face for it, thou 
priest of Baal ! and I find by woful experience thy 
absolution is not worth an old cassock ; therefore I 
am resolved to confess the truth to the whole world, 
though I die a beggar for it. But his worship over- 
flows with his mercy and his bounty ; he is not only 
pleased to forgive us our sins, but designs thou 
sha't squat thee down in Fatgoose living ; and 
which is more than all, has prevailed with me to 
become the wife of thy bosom. 



Fash. All this I intend for you, doctor. What 
you are to do for me I need not tell ye. 

Bull. Your worship's goodness is unspeakable. 
Yet there is one thing seems a point of conscience ; 
and conscience is a tender babe. If I should bind 
myself, for the sake of this living, to marry nurse, 
and maintain her afterwards, I doubt it might be 
looked on as a kind of simony. 

Coup. [Rising up.] If it were sacrilege, the 
living's worth it : therefore no more words, good 
doctor ; but with the parish — [Giving Nurse to 
him] here — take the parsonage-house. 'Tis true, 
'tis a little out of repair ; some dilapidations there 
are to be made good ; the windows are broke, the 
wainscot is warped, the ceilings are peeled, and the 
walls are cracked ; but a little glazing, painting, 
whitewash, and plaster, will make it last thy time. 

Bull. Well, sir, if it must be so, I shan't con- 
tend. What Providence orders, I submit to. 

Nurse. And so do I, with all humility. 

Coup. Why, that now was spoke like good 
people. Come, my turtle-doves, let us go help this 
poor pigeon to his wandering mate again ; and after 
institution and induction, you shall all go a-cooing 
together. {Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. — Loveless' s Lodgings. 

Enter Amanda in a scarf, %c., as just returned, Tier Maid 
following her. 

Aman. Prithee what care I who has been here ? 

Maid. Madam, 'twas my lady Bridle and my 
Lady Tiptoe. 

Aman. My lady Fiddle and my lady Faddle ! 
What dost stand troubling me with the visits of a 
parcel of impertinent women ! When they are well 
seamed with the small-pox, they won't be so fond 
of showing their faces. — There are more coquettes 
about this town — 

Maid. Madam, I suppose they only came to 
return your ladyship's visit, according to the cus- 
tom of the world. 

Aman. Would the world were on fire, and you 
in the middle on't ! Begone! leave me ! — [Exit 
Maid.] At last I am convinced. My eyes are 
testimonies of his falsehood. The base, ungrateful, 
perjured villain ! — 

Good gods ! what slippery stuff are men com- 
posed of ! 
Sure the account of their creation's false, 
And 'twas the woman's rib that they were form'd of. 
But why am I thus angry ? 
This poor relapse should only move my scorn. 
'Tis true, 

The roving flights of his unfinish'd youth 
Had strong excuses from the plea of nature ; 
Reason had thrown the reins loose on his neck, 
And slipp'd him to unlimited desire. 
If therefore he went wrong, he had a claim 
To my forgiveness, and I did him right. 
But since the years of manhood rein him in, 
And reason, well digested into thought, 
Has pointed out the course he ought to run ; 
If now he strays, 

'Twould be as weak and mean in me to pardon, 
As it has been in him to offend. But hold : 
'Tis an ill cause indeed, where nothing's to be said 

for't. 
My beauty possibly is in the wane ; 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



331 



Perhaps sixteen has greater charms for him : 
Yes, there's the secret. But let him know, 
My quiver's not entirely emptied yet, 
I still have darts, and I can shoot 'em too ; 
They're not so blunt, but they can enter still : 
The want's not in my power, but in my will. 
Virtue's his friend ; or, through another's heart, 
I yet could find the way to make his smart. 

[Going off, she meets Worthy. 
Ha ! he here ! 
Protect me, Heaven ! for this looks ominous. 

Enter Worthy, 

Wor. You seem disorder'd, madam, 
I hope there's no misfortune happen' d to you ? 

Annan. None that wall long disorder me, I hope. 

Wor. Whate'er it be disturbs you, would to 
'Twere in my power to bear the pain, [heaven ! 
Till I were able to remove the cause. 

Aman. I hope ere long it will remove itself. 
At least, I have given it warning to be gone. 

Wor. Would I durst ask, where 'tis the thorn 
torments you ! 
Forgive me, if I grow inquisitive ; 
'Tis only with desire to give you ease. 

Aman. Alas ! 'tis in a tender part. 
It can't be drawn without a world of pain : 
Yet out it must ; 
For it begins to fester in my heart. 

Wor. If 'tis the sting of unrequited love, 
Remove it instantly : 
I have a balm will quickly heal the wound. 

Aman. You'll find the undertaking difficult : 
The surgeon, who already has attempted it, 
Has much tormented me. 

Wor. I'll aid him with a gentler hand, 
If you will give me leave. 

Aman. How soft soe'er the hand may be, 
There still is terror in the operation. 

Wor. Some few preparatives would make it easy. 
Could I persuade you to apply 'em. 
Make home reflections, madam , on your slighted love : 
Weigh well the strength and beauty of your charms : 
Rouse up that spirit women ought to bear, 
And slight your god, if he neglects his angel. 
With arms of ice receive his cold embraces, 
And keep your fire for those who come in flames. 
Behold a burning lover at your feet, 
His fever raging in his veins ! 
See how he trembles, how he pants ! 
See how he glows, how he consumes ! 
Extend the arms of mercy to his aid ; 
His zeal may give him title to your pity, 
Although his merit cannot claim your love. 

Aman. Of all my feeble sex, sure I must be the 
weakest, 
Should I again presume to think on love. [Sighing. 
Alas ! my heart has been too roughly treated. 

Wor. 'Twill find the greater bliss in softer usage. 

Aman. But where's that usage to be found ? 

Wor. 'Tis here, 

Within this faithful breast ; which if you doubt, 
I'll rip it up before your eyes ; 
Lay all its secrets open to your view ; 
And then, you'll see 'twas sound. 

Aman. With just such words, 

Honest as these, the worst of men deceived me. 

Wor. He therefore merits all revenge can do ; 
His fault is such, 
The extent and stretch of vengeance cannot reach it. 



Oh 1 make me but your instrument of justice ; 
You'll find me execute it with such zeal, 
As shall convince you I abhor the crime. 

Aman. The rigour of an executioner, 
Has more the face of cruelty than justice : 
And he who puts the cord about the wretch's neck, 
Is seldom known to exceed him in his morals. 

Wor. What proof then can I give you of my 

Aman. There is on earth but one. [truth ? 

Wor. And is that in my power ? 

Aman. It is : 

And one that would so thoroughly convince me, 
I should be apt to rate your heart so high, 
I possibly might purchase't with a part of mine. 

Wor. Then heaven thou art my friend, and I 
am blest ; 
For if 'tis in my power, my will I'm sure 
Will reach it. No matter what the terms 
May be, when such a recompense is offer' d. 
Oh ! tell me quickly what this proof must be ! 
What is it will convince you of my love ? 

Aman. I shall believe you love me as you ought, 
If from this moment you forbear to ask 
Whatever is unfit for me to grant. — 
You pause upon it, sir. — I doubt, on such hard 

terms, 
A woman's heart is scarcely worth the having. 

Wor. A heart, like yours, on any terms is 
worth it ; 
'Twas not on that I paused. But I was thinking 
[Drawing nearer to her. 
Whether some things there may not be, 
Which women cannot grant without a blush, 
And yet which men may take without offence. 

[Taking her hand. 
Your hand, I fancy, may be of the number : 
Oh, pardon me ! if I commit a rape 

[Kissing it eagerly. 
Upon't ; and thus devour it with my kisses. 

Aman. O heavens ! let me go. 

Wor. Never, whilst I have strength to hold you 
here. [Forcing her to sit down on a couch. 
My life, my soul,my goddess — Oh, forgive me I 

Aman. O whither am I going ? Help, heaven, 
or I am lost. 

Wor. Stand neuter, gods, this once, I do invoke 
you. 

Aman. Then, save me, virtue, and the glory's 

Wor. Nay, never strive. [thine. 

Aman. I will and conquer too. 

My forces rally bravely to my aid. 

[Breaking from him. 
And thus I gain the day. 

Wor. Then mine as bravely double their attack ; 
[Seizing her again. 
And thus I wrest it from you. Nay, struggle not ; 
For all's in vain : or death or victory ; 
I am determined. 

Aman. And so am I : 

[Rushing from him. 
Now keep your distance, or we part for ever. 

Wor. [Offering again.] For Heaven's sake ! — 

Aman. [Going.] Nay then, farewell ! 

Wor. Oh stay ! and see the magic force of love. 
[Kneeling, and holding by her clothes. 
Behold this raging lion at your feet, 
Struck dead with fear, and tame as charms can 

make him. 
What must I do to be forgiven by you ? 

Aman. Repent, and never more offend. 



332 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



ACT V. 



Wor. Repentance for past crimes is just and easy; 
But sin no more's a task too hard for mortals. 

Aman. Yet those who hope for heaven, 
Must use their best endeavours to perform it. 
Wor. Endeavours we may use, but flesh and 

blood are got 
In t'other scale ; and they are ponderous things. 
Aman. Whate'er they are, there is a weight in 

resolution 
Sufficient for their balance. The soul, I do confess, 
Is usually so careless of its charge, 
So soft, and so indulgent to desire, 
It leaves the reins in the wild hand of nature, 
Who like a Phaeton, drives the fiery chariot, 
And sets the world on flame. 
Yet still the sovereignty is in the mind, 
Whene'er it pleases to exert its force. 
Perhaps you may not think it worth your while, 
To take such mighty pains for my esteem ; 
But that I leave to you. 
You see the price I set upon my heart ; 
Perhaps 'tis dear : but, spite of all your art, 
You'll find on cheaper terms we ne'er shall part. 

{Exit. 
Wor. Sure there's divinity about her ! 
And sh'as dispensed some portion on't to me. 
For what but now was the wild flame of love, 
Or (to dissect that specious term) the vile, 
The gross desires of flesh and blood, 
Is in a moment turn'd to adoration. 
The coarser appetite of nature's gone, and 'tis, 
Methinks, the food of angels I require. 
How long this influence may last, Heaven knows ; 
But in this moment of my purity, 
I could on her own terms accept her heart. 
Yes, lovely woman ! I can accept it. 
For now 'tis doubly worth my care. 
Your charms are much increased, since thus 

adorn'd. 
When truth's extorted from us, then we own 
The robe of virtue is a graceful habit. 
Could women but our secret counsels scan, 
Could they but reach the deep reserves of man, 
They'd wear it on, that that of love might last ; 
For when they thro.w off one, we soon the other 
Their sympathy is such — [cast. 

The fate of one, the other scarce can fly ; 
They live together, and together die. {Exit 



SCENE V. — A Room in Lord Foppington's 

House. 

Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 

Hoyd. But is it sure and certain, say you, he's 
my lord's own brother ? 

Nurse. As sure as he's your lawful husband. 

Hoyd. Ecod, if I had known that in time, I 
don't know but I might have kept him : for, 
between you and I, nurse, he'd have made a hus- 
band worth two of this I have. But which do you 
think you should fancy most, nurse ? 

Nurse. Why, truly, in my poor fancy, madam, 
your first husband is the prettier gentleman. 

Hoyd. I don't like my lord's shapes, nurse. 

Nurse. Why, in good truly, as a body may say, 
he is but a slam. 

Hoyd. What do you think now he puts me in 
mind of? Don't you remember a long, loose, 
shambling sort of a horse my father call'd Washy ? 



Nurse. As like as two twin-brothers ! 

Hoyd. Ecod, I have thought so a hundred 
times : faith, I'm tired of him. 

Nurse. Indeed, madam, I think you had e'en 
as good stand to your first bargain. 

Hoyd. Oh but, nurse, we han't considered the 
main thing yet. If I leave my lord, I must leave 
my lady too ; and when I rattle about the streets 
in my coach, they'll only say, There goes mistress 
— mistress — mistress what ? What's this man's 
name I have married, nurse ? 

Nurse. 'Squire Fashion. 

Hoyd. 'Squire Fashion is it ? — Well, 'Squire, 
that's better than nothing. Do you think one 
could not get him made a knight, nurse ? 

Nurse. I don't know but one might, madam, 
when the king's in a good humour. 

Hoyd. Ecod, that would do rarely. For then 
he'd be as good a man as my father, you know. 

Nurse. By'r Lady, and that's as good as the 
best of 'em. 

Hoyd. So 'tis, faith ; for then I shall be my 
lady, and your ladyship at every word, that's all I 
have to care for. Ha, nurse, but hark you me, 
one thing more, and then 1 have done. I'm afraid, 
if I change my husband again, I shan't have so 
much money to throw about, nurse. 

Nurse. Oh, enough's as good as a feast. Be- 
sides, madam, one don't know but as much may 
fall to your share with the younger brother as with 
the elder. For though these lords have a power of 
wealth indeed, yet, as I have heard say, they give 
it all to their sluts and their trulls ; who joggle it 
about in their coaches, with a murrain to 'em! 
whilst poor madam sits sighing, and wishing, and 
knotting, and crying, and has not a spare half- 
crown to buy her a Practice of Piety. 

Hoyd. Oh, but for that don't deceive yourself, 
nurse. For this I must say for my lord, and a — 
{Snapping her fingers] for him ; he's as free as 
an open house at Christmas. For this very morn- 
ing he told me I should have two hundred a year 
to buy pins. Now, nurse, if he gives me two 
hundred a year to buy pins, what do you think 
he'll give me to buy fine petticoats ? 

Nurse. Ah, my dearest, he deceives thee faully, 
and he's no better than 'a rogue for his pains ! 
These Londoners have got a gibberidge with 'em 
would confound a gipsy. That which they call 
pin-money is to buy their wives everything in the 
varsal world, down to their very shoe-ties. Nay, I 
have heard folks say, that some ladies, if they will 
have gallants, as they call 'em, are forced to find 
them out of their pin-money too. 

Hoyd. Has he served me so, say ye ! — Then I'll 
be his wife no longer, that's fixed. Look, here he 
comes, with all the fine folks at's heels. Ecod, 
nurse, these London ladies will laugh till they 
crack again, to see me slip my collar, and run 
away from my husband. But, d'ye hear ? Pray, 
take care of one thing : when the business comes 
to break out, be sure you get between me and my 
father, for you know his tricks ; he'll knock me 
down. 

Nurse. I'll mind him, ne'er fear, madam. 
Enter Lord Foppwgton, Loveless, Worthy, Amanda, 
and Berinthia. 

Lord Fop. Ladies and gentlemen, you are all 
welcome. — Loveless, that's my wife ; prithee do me 
the favour to salute her ; and dost hear, — [Aside 



SCENE V. 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



333 



to him'] if thau hast a mind to try thy fartune, to 
be revenged of me, I won't take it ill, stap my 
vitals ! 

Love. You need not fear, sir; I'm too fond of 

my own wife to have the least inclination to yours. 

[All salute Miss Hoyden. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.'] I'd give a thousand paund 
he would make love to her, that he may see 
she has sense enough to prefer me to him, though 
his own wife has not. — [Viewing him.] He's a 
very beastly fellow, in my opinion. 

Hoyd. [Aside.] What a power of fine men there 
are in this London '. He that kissed me first is a 
goodly gentleman, 1 promise you. Sure those 
wives have a rare time on't that live here always, 

Entw Sir Tunbelly Clumsey, with Musicians, Dancers, 

Sir Tun. Come, come in, good people, come 
in ! Come tune your fiddles, tune your fiddles ! 
— [To the hautboys.] Bagpipes, make ready there. 
Come, strike up. [Sings. 

For this is Hoyden's wedding-day, 
And therefore we keep holiday, 
And come to be merry. 
Ha ! there's my wench, I'faith. Touch and take, 
I'll warrant her ; she'll breed like a tame rabbit. 

Hoyd. [Aside.] Ecod, I think my father's gotten 
drunk before supper. 

Sir Tun. [To Loveless and Worthy.] Gen- 
tlemen, you are welcome. — [Saluting Amanda 
and Berinthia.] Ladies, by your leave. — 
[Aside.] Ha ! they bill like turtles. Udsookers, 
they set my old blood a-fire ; I shall cuckold 
somebody before morning. 

Lord Fop. [To Sir Tunbelly.] Sir, you being 
master of the entertainment, will you desire the 
company to sit? 

Sir Tun. Oons, sir, I'm the happiest man on 
this side the Ganges ! 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] This is a mighty unac- 
countable old fellow. — [To Sir Tunbelly.] I 
said, sir, it would be convenient to ask the com- 
pany to sit. 

Sir Tun. Sit !— with all my heart. — Come, take 
your places, ladies ; take your places, gentlemen. 
— Come sit down, sit down ; a pox of ceremony ! 
take your places. 

\They sit, and the masque begins. 

Enter Cvpw and Hymen, with a Chorus of Dancers. 

Cup. Thou bane to my empire, thou spring of 
contest, 
Thou source of all discord, thou period to rest, 
Instruct me, what wretches in bondage can see, 
That the aim of their life is still pointed to thee. 

Hym. Instruct me, thou little, impertinent god, 
From whence all thy subjects have taken the mode 
To grow fond of a change, to whatever it be, 
And I'll tell thee why those would be bound who 
are free. 



For change, we're for change, to whatever it be, 
We are neither contented with freedom nor thee. 
Constancy's an empty sound, 
Heaven, and earth, and all go round, 
All the works of Nature move, 
All the joys of life and love 
Are in variety. 



Cup. Were love the reward of a pains -taking 
life, 
Had a husband the art to be fond of his wife, 
Were virtue so plenty, a wife could afford, 
These very hard times, to be true to her lord, 
Some specious account might be given of those 
Who are tied by the tail, to be led by the nose. 

But since 'tis the fate of a man and his wife, 

To consume all their days in contention and strife ; 

Since, whatever the bounty of Heaven may create 

her, 
He's morally sure he shall heartily hate her, 
I think 'twere much wiser to ramble at large, 
And the volleys of love on the herd to discharge. 

Hym. Some colour of reason thy counsel might 

bear, 
Could a man have no more than his wife to his 

share : 
Or were I a monarch so cruelly just, 
To oblige a poor wife to be true to her trust ; 
But I have not pretended, for many years past, 
By marrying of people, to make 'em grow chaste. 

I therefore advise thee to let me go on, 

Thou'lt find I'm the strength and support of thy 

throne ; 
For hadst thou but eyes, thou wouldst quickly 
perceive it, 
How smoothly the dart 
Slips into the heart 
Of a woman that's wed ; 
Whilst the shivering maid 
Stands trembling, and wishing, but dare not receive 
it. 

Chorus. 

For change, we're for change, to whatever it be, 
We are neither contented with freedom nor thee. 
Constancy's an empty sound, 
Heaven, and earth, and all go round, 
All the works of Nature move, 
And the joys of life and love 
Are in variety. 

\_End of the masque* 

Sir Tun. So ; very fine, very fine, i'faith ! this 
is something like a wedding. Now, if supper were 
but ready I'd say a short grace ; and if I had such 
a bedfellow as Hoyden to-night — I'd say as short 
prayers. 

Enter Tom Fashion, Coupler, and Bull. 
How now! — what have we got here? a ghost! 
Nay, it must be so, for his flesh and blood could 
never have dared to appear before me. — [ To Tom 
Fashion.] Ah, rogue ! 

Lord Fop. Stap my vitals, Tarn again ! 

Sir Tun. My lord, will you cut his throat ? or 
shall I ? 

Lord Fop. Leave him to me, sir, if you please. 
— Prithee, Tarn, be so ingenuous now as to tell 
me what thy business is here ? 

Fash. 'Tis with your bi'ide. 

Lord Fop. Thau art the impudentest fellow that 
Nature has yet spawned into the warld, strike me 
speechless ! 

Fash. Why, you know my modesty would have 
starved me ; I sent it a-begging to you, and you 
would not give it a groat. 

Lord Fop. And dost thau expect by an excess 
of assurance to extart a maintenance fram me ? 



334 



THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



ACT V. 



Fash. [ Taking Miss Hoyden by the hand.] I 
do intend to extort your mistress from you, and that 
I hope will prove one. 

Lord Fop. lever thaught Newgate or Bedlam 
would be his fartune, and nawhis fate's decided. — 
Prithee, Loveless, dost know of ever a mad-doctor 
hard by ? 

Fash. There's one at your elbow will cure you 
presently. — [To Bull.] Prithee, doctor, take him 
in hand quickly. 

Lord Fop. Shall I beg the favour of you, sir, to 
pull your fingers out of my wife's hand ? 

Fash. His wife ! Look you there ; now I hope 
you are all satisfied he's mad. 

Lord Fop. Naw, it is not passible far me to 
penetrate what species of fally it is thou art driving 
at! 

Sir Tun. Here, here, here, let me beat out his 
brains, and that will decide all. 

Lord Fop. No, pray, sir, hold, we'll destray him 
presently according to law. 

Fash. [To Bull.] Nay, then advance, doctor : 
come, you are a man of conscience, answer boldly 
to the questions I shall ask. Did not you marry 
me to this young lady before ever that gentleman 
there saw her face ? 

Bull. Since the truth must out, I did. 

Fash. Nurse, sweet nurse, were not you a wit- 
ness to it ? 

Nurse. Since my conscience bids me speak — I 
was. 

Fash. [To Miss Hoyden.] Madam, am not I 
your lawful husband ? 

Hoyd. Truly I can't tell, but you married me 
first. 

Fash. Now I hope you are all satisfied ? 

Sir Tun. [Offering to strike him, is held by 
Loveless and Worthy.] Oons and thunder, you 
lie! 

Lord Fop. Pray, sir, be calm, the battle is in 
disarder, but requires more canduct than courage 
to rally our forces. — Pray, dactar, one word with 
you. — [Aside to Bull.] Look you, sir, though I 
will not presume to calculate your notions of 
damnation fram the description you give us of hell, 
yet since there is at least a passibility you may have 
a pitchfark thrust in your backside, methinks it 
should not be worth your while to risk your saul in 
the next warld for the sake of a beggarly yaunger 
brather, who is nat able to make your bady happy 
in this. 

Bull. Alas ! my lord, I have no worldly ends ; 
I speak the truth, Heaven knows. 

Lord Fop. Nay, prithee, never engage Heaven 
in the matter, for by all I can see 'tis like to prove 
a business for the devil. 

Fash. Come, pray sir, all above-board, no cor- 
rupting of evidences. If you please, this young 
lady is my lawful wife, and I'll justify it in all the 
courts of England ; so your lordship (who always 
had a passion for variety) may go seek a new mis- 
tress if you think fit. 

Lord Fop. I am struck dumb with his impu- 
dence, and cannot passitively tell whether ever I 
shall speak again or nat. 

Sir Tun. Then let me come and examine the 
business a little, I'll jerk the truth out of 'em pre- 
sently. Here, give me my dog-whip. 

Fash. Look you, old gentleman, 'tis in vain to 
make a noise ; if you grow mutinous, I have some 



friends within call have swords by their sides above 
four foot long; therefore be calm, hear the evidence 
patiently, and when the jury have given their ver- 
dict, pass sentence according to law. Here's 
honest Coupler shall be foreman, and ask as many 
questions as he pleases. 

Coup. All I have to ask is, whether nurse per- 
sists in her evidence ? The parson, I dare swear, 
will never flinch from his. 

Nurse. [To Sir Tunbelly, kneeling.] I hope 
in heaven your worship will pardon me : I have 
served you long and faithfully, but in this thing I 
was overreached ; your worship, however, was 
deceived as well as I, and if the wedding-dinner 
had been ready, you had put madam to bed with 
him with your own hands. 

Sir Tun. But how durst you do this, without 
acquainting of me ? 

Nurse. Alas ! if your worship had seen how the 
poor thing begged, and prayed, and clung, and 
twined about me, like ivy to an old wall, you 
would say, I who had suckled it, and swaddled it, 
and nursed it both wet and dry, must have had a 
heart of adamant to refuse it. 

Sir Tun. Very well ! 

Fash. Foreman, I expect your verdict. 

Coup. Ladies and gentlemen, what's your 
opinions ? 

All. A clear case ! a clear case ! 

Coup. Then, my young folks, I wish you joy. 

Sir Tun. [To Tom Fashion.] Come hither, 
stripling ; if it be true then, that thou hast married 
my daughter, prithee tell me who thou art ? 

Fash. Sir, the best of my condition is, I am 
your son-in-law ; and the worst of it is, I am bro- 
ther to that noble peer there. 

Sir Tun. Art thou brother to that noble peer ! — 
Why, then, that noble peer, and thee, and thy wife, 
and the nurse, and the priest — may all go and be 
damned together ! [Exit. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] Now, for my part, I think 
the wisest thing a man can do with an aching heart 
is to put on a serene countenance ; for a philo- 
sophical air is the most becoming thing in the world 
to the face of a person of quality. I will therefore 
bear my disgrace like a great man, and let the 
people see I am above an affront. — [Aloud.] Dear 
Tarn, since things are thus fallen aut, prithee give 
me leave to wish thee jay; I do it de bon cceur, 
strike me dumb ! You have married a woman 
beautiful in her person, charming in her airs, pru- 
dent in her canduct, canstant in her inclinations, 
and of a nice marality, split my windpipe ! 

Fash. Your lardship may keep up your spirits 
with your grimace if you please, I shall support 
mine with this lady, and two thousand pound 
a-year. — [Taking Miss Hoyden's hand.] Come, 
madam : — 

We once again, you see, are man and wife, 
And now, perhaps, the bargain's struck for life. 
If I mistake, and we should part again, 
At least you see you may have choice of men : 
Nay, should the war at length such havoc make, 
That lovers should grow scarce, yet for your sake, 
Kind Heaven always will preserve a beau : 

[Pointing to Lord Foppington. 
You'll find his lordship ready to come to. 

Lord Fop. Her ladyship shall stap my vitals if 
I do. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 



EPILOGUE, 



335 



SPOKEN BY LORD FOPP1NGTON. 



Gentlemen and Ladies, 
These people have regaled you here to-day 
(In my opinion) with a saucy play ; 
In which the author does presume to show, 
That coxcomb, ab origine — was beau. 
Truly I think the thing of so much weight, 
That if some sharp chastisement ben't his fate, 
Gad's curse ! it may in time destroy the state. 
I hold no one its friend, I must confess, 
Who would discauntenance you men of dress. 
Far, give me leave to abserve,good clothes are things 
Have ever been of great support to kings ; 
All treasons come from slovens, it is nat 
Within the reach of gentle beaux to plat ; 
They have no gall, no spleen, no teeth, no stings, 
Of all Gad's creatures, the most harmless things. 
Through all recard, no prince was ever slain, 
By one who had a feather in his brain. 



They're men of too refined an education, 

To squabble with a court — for a vile dirty nation. 

I'm very pasitive you never saw 

A through republican a finish'd beau. 

Nor, truly, shall you very often see 

A Jacobite much better dress'd than he ; 

In shart, through all the courts that I have been in, 

Your men of mischief — still are in faul linen. 

Did ever one yet dance the Tyburn jig, 

With a free air, or a well-pawder'd wig? 

Did ever highwaymen yet bid you stand, 

With a sweet bawdy snufFbax in his hand ? 

Ar do you ever find they ask your purse 

As men of breeding do ? — Ladies, Gad's curse ! 

This author is a dag, and 'tis not fit 

You should allow him even one grain of wit : 

To which, that his pretence may ne'er be named, 

My humble motion is — he may be damn'd. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Sir John Brute. 



Constant, ) gentlemen of the Town. 
Heartfree, j 
Sir John Brute. 

Lord Rake, \ Companions to I 

Colonel Bully, j 

Treble, a Singing-Master. 

Rasor, Valet-de-Chambre to Sir John Brute. 

Lovewell, Page to Lady Brute. 

Joe, a Porter. 

Justice of the Peace. 



Page to Lord Rake. 

Lady Brute, Wife o/Sir John Brute. 

Belinda, her Niece. 

Lady Fancyful. 

Mademoiselle, Fille-de-Chambre to Lady Fancyful. 

Cornet, 

Pipe, 



Maids to Lady Fancyful. 



Tailor, Constable, Watchmen, Footmen, &c. 



SCENE,— London. 



PROLOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. 



Since 'tis the intent and business of the stage, 

To copy out the follies of the age ; 

To hold to every man a faithful glass, 

And show him of what species he's an ass : 

I hope the next that teaches in the school, 

Will show our author he's a scribbling fool. 

And, that the satire may be sure to bite, 

Kind Heaven inspire some venom'd priest to write! 

And grant some ugly lady may indite ! 

For I would have him lash'd, by heavens I would ! 

Till his presumption swam away in blood. 

Three plays at once proclaims a face of brass, 

No matter what they are; that's not the case ; 

To write three plays, e'en that's to be an ass. 

But what I least forgive, he knows it too, 

For to his cost he lately has known you. 



Experience shows, to many a writer's smart, 
You hold a court where mercy ne'er had part ; 
So much of the old serpent's sting you have, 
You love to damn, as Heaven delights to save. 
In foreign parts, let a bold volunteer, 
For public good, upon the stage appear, 
He meets ten thousand smiles to dissipate his fear. 
All tickle on the adventuring young beginner, 
And only scourge the incorrigible sinner ; 
They touch indeed his faults, but with a hand 
So gentle, that his merit still may stand : 
Kindly they buoy the follies of his pen, 
That he may shun 'em when he writes again. 
But 'tis not so in this good-natured town ; 
All's one, an ox, a poet, or a crown ; 
Old England's play was always knocking down. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I.— A Room in Sir John Brute's 

House. 

Enter Sir John Brute. 

Sir John. What cloying meat is love — when 
matrimony's the sauce to it ! Two years' marriage 
has debauched my five senses. Everything I see, 
everything I hear, everything I feel, everything I 
smell, and everything I taste — methinks has wife 
in't. No boy was ever so weary of his tutor, no 
girl of her bib, no nun of doing penance, nor old 



maid of being chaste, as I am of being married. 
Sure, there's a secret curse entailed upon the very 
name of wife. My lady is a young lady, a fine 
lady, a witty lady, a virtuous lady — and yet I hate 
her. There is but one thing I loathe on earth beyond 
her : that's fighting. Would my courage come up 
but to a fourth part of my ill-nature, I'd stand buff 
to her relations, and thrust her out of doors. But 
marriage has sunk me down to such an ebb of 
resolution, I dare not draw my sword, though even 
to get rid of my wife. But here she comes. 



SCENE 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



387 



Enfe*" Lady Brute. 

Lady Brute. Do you dine at home to-day, sir 
John ? 

Sir John. W T hy, do you expect I should tell you 
what I don't know myself? 

Lady Brute. I thought there was no harm in 
asking you. 

Sir John. If thinking wrong were an excuse for 
impertinence, women might be justified in most 
things they say or do. 

Lady Brute. I'm sorry I've said anything to 
displease you. 

Sir John. Sorrow for things past is of as little 
importance to me, as my dining at home or abroad 
ought to be to you. 

Lady Brute. My inquiry was only that I might 
have provided what you liked. 

Sir John. Six to four you had been in the 
wrong there again ; for what I liked yesterday I 
don't like to-day, and what I like to-day, 'tis odds 
I mayn't like to-morrow. 

Lady Brute. But if I had asked you what you 
liked ? 

Sir John. Why, then, there would be more 
asking about it than the thing is worth. 

Lady Brute. I wish I did but know how I might 
please you. 

Sir John. Ay, but that sort of knowledge is not 
a wife's talent. 

Lady Brute. Whate'er my talent is, I'm sure 
my will has ever been to make you easy. 

Sir John. If women were to have their wills 
the world would be finely governed. 

Lady Brute. What reason have I given you to 
use me as you do of late ? It once was otherwise. 
You married me for love. 

Sir John. And you me for money. So, you 
have your reward, and I have mine. 

Lady Brute. What is it that disturbs you ? 

Sir John. A parson. 

Lady Brute. Why, what has he done to you ? 

Sir John. He has married me. [Exit. 

Lady Brute. The devil's in the fellow, I think ! 
— I was told before I married him that thus 'twould 
be : but I thought I had charms enough to govern 
him ; and that where there was an estate, a woman 
must needs be happy ; so, my vanity has deceived 
me, and my ambition has made me uneasy. But 
there's some comfort still; if one would be revenged 
of him, these are good times; a woman may have 
a gallant, and a separate maintenance too. — The 
surly puppy ! — Yet, he's a fool for't ; for hitherto 
he has been no monster : but who knows how far 
he may provoke me ? I never loved him, yet I 
have been ever true to him ; and that in spite of 
all the attacks of art and nature upon a poor weak 
woman's heart, in favour of a tempting lover. 
Methinks so noble a defence as I have made should 
be rewarded with a better usage. — Or who can tell 
— perhaps a good part of what I suffer from my 
husband, may be a judgment upon me for my cru- 
elty to my lover — Lord, with what pleasure could I 
indulge that thought, were there but a possibility 
of finding arguments to make it good ! — And how 
do I know but there may ? — Let me see. — What 
opposes ? — My matrimonial vow. — Why, what did 
I vow ? I think I promised to be true to my hus- 
band. Well ; and he promised to be kind to me. 
But he han't kept his word. — Why, then, I am 



absolved from mine. — Ay, that seems clear to me. 
The argument's good between the king and the 
people, why not between the husband and the 
wife ? Oh, but that condition was not expressed. — 
No matter, 'twas understood. Well, by all I see, 
if I argue the matter a little longer with myself, I 
shan't find so many bugbears in the way as I 
thought I should. Lord, what fine notions of 
virtue do we women take up upon the credit of 
old foolish philosophers ! Virtue's its own reward, 
virtue's this, virtue's that— virtue's an ass, and a 
gallant's worth forty on't. 

Enter Belinda, 

Lady Brute. Good morrow, dear cousin ! 

Bel. Good-morrow, madam ; you look pleased 
this morning. 

Lady Brute. I am so. 

Bel. With what, pray ? 

Lady Brute. With my husband. 

Bel. Drown husbands ! for yours is a provoking 
fellow. As he went out just now, I prayed him to 
tell me what time of day 'twas ; and he asked me 
if I took him for the church-clock, that was obliged 
to tell all the parish. 

Lady Brute. He has been saying some good 
obliging things to me too. In short, Belinda, he 
has used me so barbarously of late, that I could 
almost resolve to play the downright wife — and 
cuckold him. 

Bel. That would be downright, indeed. 

Lady Brute. Why, after all, there's more to be 
said for't than you'd imagine, child. I know, accord- 
ing to the strict statute law of religion, I should do 
wrong ; but, if there were a Court of Chancery in 
heaven, I'm sure I should cast him. 

Bel. If there were a House of Lords you might. 

Lady Brute. In either I should infallibly carry 
my cause. Why, he's the first aggressor, not I. 

Bel. Ay, but you know, we must return good 
for evil. 

Lady Brute. That may be a mistake in the 
translation. — Prithee, be of my opinion, Belinda ; 
for I'm positive I'm in the right ; and if you'll 
keep up the prerogative of a woman, you'll like- 
wise be positive you are in the right, whenever you 
do anything you have a mind to. But I shall play 
the fool and jest on, till I make you begin to think 
I'm in earnest. 

Bel. 1 shan't take the liberty, madam, to think 
of anything that you desire to keep a secret from 
me. 

Lady Brute. Alas, my dear ! I have no secrets. 
My heart could never yet confine my tongue. 

Bel. Your eyes, you mean ; for I'm sure I have 
seen them gadding, when your tongue has been 
locked up safe enough. 

Lady Brute. My eyes gadding ! prithee after 
who, child ? 

Bel. Why, after one that thinks you hate him 
as much as I know you love him. 

Lady Brute. Constant, you mean ? 

Bel. I do so. 

Lady Brute. Lord, what should put such a 
thing into your head ? 

Bel. That which puts things into most people's 
heads — observation . 

Lady Brute. Why what have you observed, in 
the name of wonder ? 

Bel. I have observed you blush when you meet 
Z 



338 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



ACT I. 



him, force yourself away from him, and then be 
out of humour with everything about you. In a 
word, never was poor creature so spurred on by 
desire, and so reined in with fear I 

Lady Brute. How strong is fancy ! 

Bel. How weak is woman ! 

Lady Brute. Prithee, niece, have abetter opinion 
of your aunt's inclination. 

Bel. Dear aunt, have a better opinion of your 
niece's understanding. 

Lady Brute. You'll make me angry. 

Bel. You'll make me laugh. 

Lady Brute. Then you are resolved to persist ? 

Bel. Positively. 

Lady Brute. And all I can say — 

Bel. Will signify nothing. 

Lady Brute. Though I should swear 'twere 
false — 

Bel. I should think it true. 

Lady Brute. Then let us both forgive — [Kiss- 
ing her] for we have both offended : I in making 
a secret, you in discovering it. 

Bel. Good-nature may do much : but you have 
more reason to forgive one, than I have to pardon 
t'other. 

Lady Brute. 'Tis true, Belinda, you have given 
me so many proofs of your friendship, that my 
reserve has been indeed a crime. But that you 
may more easily forgive me, remember, child, that 
when our nature prompts us to a thing our honour 
and religion have forbid us, we would (were't pos- 
sible) conceal, even from the soul itself, the know- 
ledge of the body's weakness. 

Bel. Well, I hope, to make your friend amends, 
you'll hide nothing from her for the future, though 
the body should still grow weaker and weaker. 

Lady Brute. No, from this moment I have no 
more reserve ; and for a proof of my repentance, 
I own, Belinda, I'm in danger. Merit and wit 
assault me from without ; nature and love solicit 
me within ; my husband's barbarous usage piques 
me to revenge ; and Satan, catching at the fair 
occasion, throws in my way that vengeance which, 
of all vengeance, pleases women best. 

Bel. 'Tis well Constant don't know the weak- 
ness of the fortification ; for, o' my conscience, 
he'd soon come on to the assault ! 

Lady Brute. Ay, and I'm afraid carry the town 
too. But whatever you may have observed, I have 
dissembled so well as to keep him ignorant. So you 
see I'm no coquette, Belinda : and if you'll follow 
my advice, youll never be one neither. 'Tis true, 
coquetry is one of the main ingredients in the 
natural composition of a woman ; and I, as well as 
others, could be well enough pleased to see a 
crowd of young fellows ogling, and glancing, and 
watching all occasions to do forty foolish officious 
things. Nay, should some of 'em push on, even 
to hanging or drowning, why, faith, if I should let 
pure woman alone, I should e'en be but too well 
pleased with't. 

Bel. I'll swear 'twould tickle me strangely. 

Lady Brute. But after all, 'tis a vicious prac- 
tice in us to give the least encouragement but 
where we design to come to a conclusion. For 
'tis an unreasonable thing to engage a man in a 
disease which we beforehand resolve we never will 
apply a cure to. 

Bvl. 'Tis true ; but then a woman must aban- 
don one of the supreme blessings of her life. For 



I am fully convinced, no man has half that pleasure 
in possessing a mistress as a woman has in jilting a 
gallant. 

Lady Brute. The happiest woman then on earth 
must be our neighbour. 

Bel. O the impertinent composition ! She has 
vanity and affectation enough to make her a ridi- 
culous original, in spite of all that art and nature 
ever furnished to any of her sex before her. 

Lady Brute. She concludes all men her cap- 
tives ; and whatever course they take, it serves to 
confirm her in that opinion. 

Bel. If they shun her, she thinks 'tis modesty, 
and takes it for a proof of their passion. 

Lady Brute. And if they are rude to her, 'tis 
conduct, and done to prevent town-talk. 

Bel. When her folly makes 'em laugh, she 
thinks they are pleased with her wit. 

Lady Brute. And when her impertinence makes 
'em dull, concludes they are jealous of her favours. 

Bel. All their actions and their words she takes 
for granted aim at her. 

Lady Brute. And pities all other women because 
she thinks they envy her. 

Bel. Pray, out of pity to ourselves, let us find a 
better subject, for I'm weary of this. Do you think 
your husband inclined to jealousy ? 

Lady Brute. Oh, no ; he does not love me well 
enough for that. Lord, how wrong men's maxims 
are ! They are seldom jealous of their wives, un- 
less they are very fond of 'em ; whereas they ought 
to consider the women's inclinations, for there 
depends their fate. Well, men may talk ; but they 
are not so wise as we, that's certain. 

Bel. At least in our affairs. 

Lady Brute. Nay, I believe we should outdo 
'em in the business of the state too ; for methinks 
they do and undo, and make but bad work on't. 

Bel. Why then don't we get into the intrigues 
of government as well as they ? 

Lady Brute. Because we have intrigues of our 
own that make us more sport, child. And so let's 
in, and consider of 'em. {.Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Lady Fajstcyful's Dressing- Room. 

Enter Lady Fancyful, Mademoiselle, and Cornet. 

Lady Fan. How do I look this morning ? 

Cor. Your ladyship looks very ill, truly. 

Lady Fan. Lard, how ill-natured thou art, Cor- 
net, to tell me so, though the thing should be true! 
Don't you know that I have humility enough to be 
but too easily out of conceit with myself. Hold the 
glass ; I dare swear that will have more manners 
than you have. — Mademoiselle, let me have your 
opinion too. 

Mad. My opinion pe, matam, dat your ladyship 
never look so well in your life. 

Lady Fan. Well, the French are the prettiest 
obliging people ; they say the most acceptable, 
well-mannered things, and never flatter. 

Mad. Your ladyship say great justice inteed. 

Lady Fan. Nay, everything's just in my house 
but Cornet. — The very looking-glass gives her the 
dementi. — But I'm almost afraid it flatters me, it 
makes me look so very engaging. 

[Looking affectedly in the glass. 

Mad. Inteed, matam, your face pe handsomer 
den all de looking-glass in tee world, croyez-moi ! 



SCENE II. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



339 



Lady Fan. But is it possible my eyes can be so 
languishing, and so very full of fire ? 

Mad. Mataui, if de glass was burning-glass, I 
believe your eyes set de fire in de house. 

Lady Fan. You may take that night-gown, 

Mademoiselle Get out of the room, Cornet ! I 

can't endure you. — {Exit Cornet.] This wench, 
methinks, does look so unsufferably ugly. 

Mad. Every ting look ugly, matam, dat stand 
by your latiship. 

Lady Fan. No really, Mademoiselle, methinks 
you look mighty pretty. 

Mad. Ah, matam, de moon have no eclat, ven 
de sun appear. 

Lady Fan. O pretty expression ! Have you 
ever been in love, Mademoiselle ? 

Mad. Oui, matam. [Sighing. 

Lady Fan. And were you beloved again ? 
Mad. No, matam. [Sighing. 

Lady Fan. O ye gods ! what an unfortunate 
creature should I be in such a case ! But nature 
has made me nice for my own defence : I'm nice, 
strangely nice, Mademoiselle. I believe were the 
merit of whole mankind bestowed upon one single 
person, I should still think the fellow wanted some- 
thing to make it worth my while to take notice of 
him. And yet I could love ; nay fondly love, were 
it possible to have a thing made on purpose for 
me : for I'm not cruel, Mademoiselle ; I'm only 
nice. 

Mad. Ah, matam, I wish I was fine gentleman 
for your sake. I do all de ting in de world to get 
leetel way into your heart. I make song, I make 
verse, I give you de serenade, I give great many 
present to Mademoiselle ; I no eat, I no sleep, I 
be lean, I be mad, I hang myself, I drown myself. 
Ah ma chere dame, que je vous aimerais ! 

[Embracing her. 
Lady Fan. "Well, the French have strange 
obliging ways with 'em ; you may take those two 
pair of gloves, Mademoiselle. 

Mad. Me humbly tanke my sweet lady. 

Re-enter Cornet. 
Cor. Madam, here's a letter for your ladyship 
by the penny-post. [Exit. 

Lady Fan. Some new conquest, I'll warrant 
you. For without vanity, I looked extremely clear 
last night, when I went to the Park. — O agreeable ! 
Here's a new song made of me : and ready set too. 
O thou welcome thing ! — {Kissing it.] Call 
Pipe hither, she shall sing it instantly. 
Enter Pipe. 
Here, sing me this new song, Pipe. 
Pipe sings. 
Fly, fly, you happy shepherds, fly ! 

Avoid Philira's charms ; 
The rigour of her heart denies 

The heaven that's in her arms. 
Ne'er hope to gaze, and then retire, 

Nor yielding, to he blest : 
Nature, who form'd her eyes of fire, 

Of ice composed her breast. 
Yet, lovely maid, this once believe 

A slave whose zeal you move ; 
The gods, alas, your youth deceive, 

Their heaven consists in love. 
In spite of all the thanks you owe, 

You may reproach 'em this, 
That where they did their form bestow, 

They have denied their bliss. [Exit. 



Lady Fan. Well there may be faults, Made- 
moiselle, but the design is so very obliging, 'twould 
be a matchless ingratitude in me to discover 'em. 

Mad. Ma foi, matam, I tink de gentleman's 
song tell you de trute : if you never love, you 
never be happy. — Ah, que j'aime 1' amour moi ! 

Re-enter Cornet, with another letter. 

Cor. Madam, here's another letter for your 
ladyship. [Exit. 

Lady Fan. 'Tis thus I am importuned every 
morning, Mademoiselle. Pray how do the French 
ladies when they are thus accablees ? 

Mad. Matam, dey never complain. Au con- 
traire, when one Frense laty have got hundred 
lover — den she do all she can — to get hundred more. 

Lady Fan. Well, strike me dead, I think they 
have le gout bon ! For 'tis an unutterable plea- 
sure to be adored by all the men, and envied by all 
the women. — Yet I'll swear I'm concerned at the 
torture I give 'em. Lard, why was I formed to 
make the whole creation uneasy ! But let me 
read my letter. — {Reads.'] If you have a mind to 
hear of your faults, instead of being praised for 
your virtues, take the pains to walk in the Green- 
walk in St. James's with your woman an hour 
hence. You'll there meet one who hates you for 
some things, as he could love you for others, and 
therefore is willing to endeavour your reforma- 
tion. If you come to the place I mention, you'll 
know who I am ; if you don't, you never shall: so 
take your choice. — This is strangely familiar, 
Mademoiselle ; now have I a provoking fancy to 
know who this impudent fellow is. 

Mad. Den take your scarf and your mask, and 
go to de rendezvous. De Frense laty do justement 
comme ca. 

Lady Fan. Rendezvous ! What, rendezvous 
with a man, Mademoiselle ! 

Mad. Eh, pourquoi non ? 

Lady Fan. What, and a man perhaps I never 
saw in my life. 

Mad. Tant mieux : e'est done quelque chose de 
nouveau. 

Lady Fan. Why, how do I know what designs 
he may have ? He may intend to ravish me for 
aught I know. 

Mad. Ravish ! — bagatelle. I would fain see one 
impudent rogue ravish Mademoiselle ; oui, je le 
voudrais. 

Lady Fan. Oh, but my reputation, Made- 
moiselle, my reputation ; ah, ma chere reputation ! 

Mad. Matam, quand on l'a une fois perdue, on 
n'en est plus embarrassee. 

Lady Fan. Fi Mademoiselle, fi ! Reputation 
is a jewel. 

Mad. Qui coute bien-chere, matam. 

Lady Fan. Why sure you would not sacrifice 
your honour to your pleasure ? 

Mad. Je suis philosophe. 

Lardy Fan. Bless me, how you talk ! Why, 
what if honour be a burden, Mademoiselle, must it 
not be borne ? 

Mad. Chacun a sa facon. Quand quelquechose 
m'incommode moi, je m'en defais, vite. 

Lady Fan. Get you gone, you little naughty 
Frenchwoman you ! I vow and swear I must turn 
you out of doors, if you talk thus. 

Mad. Turn me out of doors ! — turn yourself 
out of doors, and go see what de gentleman have to 

Z2 



340 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



say to you. — Tenez. — Voila [Giving her her things 
hastily] votre echarpe, voila votre coiffe, voila 
votre masque, voila tout. — [Calling within.'] He, 
Mercure, coquin ! call one chair for matam, and 
one oder for me: va-t'en vite. — [Turning to her 
lady, and helping her on hastily with her things.'] 
Allons, matam ; dep£chez-vous done. Mon Dieu, 
quelles scrupules ! 

Lady Fan. Well for once, Mademoiselle, I'll 
follow your advice, out of the intemperate desire I 
have to know who this ill-bred fellow is. But 
I have too much delicatesse to make a practice 
on't. 

Mad. Belle chose vraiment que la delicatesse, 
lorsqu'il s'agit de se divertir ! — Ah, ca — Vous 
voila equipee ; partons.— He bien ! — qu'avez vous 
done ? 

Lady Fan. J'ai peur. 

Mad. Je n'en ai point moi. 

Lady Fan. I dare not go. 

Mad. Demeurez done. 

Lady Fan. Je suis poltronne. 

Mad. Tant pis pour vous. 

Lady Fan. Curiosity's a wicked devil. 



Mad. C'est une charmante sainte. 

Lady Fan. It ruined our first parents. 

Mad. Elle a bien diverti leurs enfans. 

Lady Fa,n. L'honneur est contre. 

Mad. Le plaisir est pour. 

Lady Fan. Must I then go ? 

Mad. Must you go ! — must you eat, must you 
drink, must you sleep, must you live ? De nature 
bid you do one, de nature bid you do toder. — Vous 
me ferez enrager ! 

Lady Fan. But when reason corrects nature, 
Mademoiselle ? 

Mad. Elle est done bien insolente, c'est sa soeur 
atnee. 

Lady Fan. Do you then prefer your nature to 
your reason, Mademoiselle ? 

Mad. Oui da. 

Lady Fan. Pourquoi ? 

Mad. Because my nature make me merry, my 
reason make me mad. 

Lady Fan. Ah la mechante Francaise ! 

Mad. Ah la belle Anglaise ! 

[Exit, forcing off Lady Fancyful. 



ACT II. 



SCENE l.—St. James's Park. 

Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 

Lady Fan. Well, I vow, Mademoiselle, I'm 
strangely impatient to know who this confident 
fellow is. 

Enter Heartfree. 

Look, there's Heartfree. But sure it can't be him ; 
he's a professed woman-hater. Yet who knows 
what my wicked eyes may have done ! 

Mad. II nous approche, madame. 

Lady Fan. Yes, 'tis he : now will he be most 
intolerably cavalier, though he should be in love 
with me. 

Heart. Madam, I'm your humble servant; I 
perceive you have more humility and good-nature 
than I thought you had. 

Lady Fan. What you attribute to humility and 
good-nature, sir, may perhaps be only due to curio- 
sity. I had a mind to know who 'twas had ill 
manners enough to write that letter. 

[Throwing him his Letter. 

Heart. Well, and now I hope you are satisfied. 

Lady Fan. I am so, sir ; good b'w'y t'ye. 

Heart. Nay, hold there ; though you have done 
your business, I han't done mine : by your lady- 
ship's leave, we must have one moment's prattle 
together. Have you a mind to be the prettiest 
woman about town, or not ? How she stares upon 
me ! What ! this passes for an impertinent ques- 
tion with you now, because you think you are so 
already. 

Lady Fan. Pray, sir, let me ask you a question 
in my turn : by what right do you pretend to 
examine me ? 

Heart. By the same right that the strong govern 
the weak, because I have you in my power ; for 
you cannot get so quickly to your coach but I shall 



have time enough to make you hear everything I 
have to say to you. 

Lady Fan. These are strange liberties you take, 
Mr. Heartfree ! 

Heart. They are so, madam, but there's no help 
for it ; for know that I have a design upon you. 

Lady Fan. Upon me, sir ! 

Heart. Yes ; and one that will turn to your 
glory, and my comfort, if you will but be a little 
wiser than you use to be. 

Lady Fan. Very well, sir. 

Heart. Let me see — your vanity, madam, I take 
to be about some eight degrees higher than any 
woman's in the town, let t'other be who she will ; 
and my indifference is naturally about the same 
pitch. Now could you find the way to turn this 
indifference into fire and flames, methinks your 
vanity ought to be satisfied ; and this, perhaps, you 
might bring about upon pretty reasonable terms. 

Lady Fan. And pray at what rate would this 
indifference be bought off, if one should have so 
depraved an appetite to desire it ? 

Heart. Why, madam, to drive a quaker's bar- 
gain, and make but one word with you, if I do part 
with it — you must lay me down — your affectation. 

Lady Fan. My affectation, sir ! 

Heart. Why, I ask you nothing but what you 
may very well spare. 

Lady Fan. You grow rude, sir ! — Come, Made- 
moiselle, 'tis high time to be gone. 

Mad. Allons, allons, allons ! 

Heart. [Stopping them.] Nay, you may as well 
stand still ; for hear me you shall, walk which way 
you please. 

Lady Fan. What mean you, sir ? 

Heart. I mean to tell you, that you are the most 
ungrateful woman upon earth. 

Lady Fan. Ungrateful ! To who ? 

Heart. To nature. 



SCENE I. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



341 



Lady Fan. Why, what has nature done for me ? 

Heart. What you have undone by art. It made 
you handsome ; it gave you beauty to a miracle, a 
shape without a fault, wit enough to make 'em 
relish, and so turned you loose to your own discre- 
tion ; which has made such work with you, that 
you are become the pity of our sex, and the jest of 
your own. There is not a feature in your face, 
but you have found the way to teach it some affected 
convulsion ; your feet, your hands, your very fin- 
gers' ends, are directed never to move without some 
ridiculous air or other ; and your language is a 
suitable trumpet, to draw people's eyes upon the 
raree-show. 

Mad. [Aside.'] Est-ce qu'on fait l'amour en 
Angleterre comme ca ? 

Lady Fan. [Aside.] Now could I cry for mad- 
ness, but that I know he'd laugh at me for it. 

Heart. Now do you hate me for telling you the 
truth, but that's because you don't believe it is so; 
for were you once convinced of that, you'd reform 
for your own sake. But 'tis as hard to persuade 
a woman to quit anything that makes her ridicu- 
lous, as 'tis to prevail with a poet to see a fault in 
his own play. 

Lady Fan. Every circumstance of nice breeding 
must needs appear ridiculous to one who has so 
natural an antipathy to good manners. 

Heart. But suppose I could find the means to 
convince you, that the whole world is of my opi- 
nion, and that those who flatter and commend you, 
do it to no other intent, but to make you persevere 
in your folly, that they may continue in their 
mirth. 

Lady Fan. Sir, though you and all that world 
you talk of, should be so impertinently officious as 
to think to persuade me I don't know how to 
behave myself, I should still have charity enough 
for my own understanding, to believe myself in the 
right, and all you in the wrong. 

Mad. Le voila mort ! 

[Exeunt Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 

Heart. [Gazing after her.] There, her single 
clapper has published the sense of the whole sex. 
Well, this once 1 have endeavoured to wash the 
blackamoor white ; but henceforward I'll sooner 
undertake to teach sincerity to a courtier, gene- 
rosity to a usurer, honesty to a lawyer, nay, humi- 
lity to a divine, than discretion to a woman I see 
has once set her heart upon playing the fool. 

Enter Constant. 

Morrow, Constant. 

Const. Good morrow, Jack : what are you doing 
here this morning ? 

Heart. Doing ! guess, if thou canst. — Why I 
have been endeavouring to persuade my lady Fan- 
cyful that she's the foolishest woman about town. 

Const. A pretty endeavour truly ! 

Heart. I have told her in as plain English as I 
could speak, both what the town says of her, and 
what I think of her. In short, I have used her as 
an absolute king would do Magna Charta. 

Const. And how does she take it ? 

Heart. As children do pills ; bite 'em, but can't 
swallow 'em. 

Const. But, prithee, what has put it into your 
head, of all mankind, to turn reformer ? 

Heart. Why, one thing was, the morning hung 
upon my hands, I did not know what to do with 



myself ; and another was, that as little as I care 
for women, I could not see with patience one that 
Heaven had taken such wondrous pains about, be 
so very industrious to make herself the jack-pud- 
ding of the creation. 

Const. Well, now could I almost wish to see my 
cruel mistress make the self-same use of what 
Heaven has done for her, that so T might be cured 
of a disease that makes me so very uneasy ; for 
love, love is the devil, Heartfree. 

Heart. And why do you let the devil govern 
you ? 

Const. Because I have more flesh and blood 
than grace and self-denial. My dear, dear mis- 
tress ! — 'Sdeath ! that so genteel a woman should 
be a saint when religion's out of fashion ! 

Heart. Nay, she's much in the wrong truly ; 
but who knows how far time and good example 
may prevail ? 

Const. Oh ! they have played their parts in vain 
already. 'Tis now two years since that damned 
fellow her husband invited me to his wedding : and 
there was the first time I saw that charming 
woman, whom I have loved ever since, more than 
e'er a martyr did his soul ; but she is cold, my 
friend, still cold as the northern star. 

Heart. So are all women by nature, which 
makes 'em so willing to be warmed. 

Const. Oh, don't profane the sex ! Prithee 
think 'em all angels for her sake, for she's vir- 
tuous even to a fault. 

Heart. A lover's head is a good accountable 
thing truly ! He adores his mistress for being vir- 
tuous, and yet is very angry with her because she 
won't be lewd. 

Const. Well, the only relief I expect in my 
misery is to see thee some day or other as deeply 
engaged as myself, which will force me to be merry 
in the midst of all my misfortunes. 

Heart. That day will never come, be assured, 
Ned. Not but that I can pass a night with a 
woman, and for the time, perhaps, make myself as 
good sport as you can do. Nay, I can court 
a woman too, call her nymph, angel, goddess, what 
you please : but here's the difference 'twixt you 
and I ; I persuade a woman she's an angel, and 
she persuades you she's one. Prithee let me tell 
you how I avoid falling in love ; that which serves 
me for prevention, may chance to serve you for a 
cure. 

Const. Well, use the ladies moderately then, and 
I'll hear you. 

Heart. That using 'em moderately undoes us 
all ; but I'll use 'em justly, and that you ought 
to be satisfied with. I always consider a. woman, 
not as the tailor, the shoemaker, the tire-woman, 
the sempstress, and (which is more than all that) 
the poet makes her ; but I consider her as pure 
nature has contrived her, and that more strictly 
than I should have done our old grandmother Eve, 
had I seen her naked in the garden ; for I consider 
her turned inside out. Her heart, well- examined, 
I find there pride, vanity, covetousness, indiscre- 
tion, but above all things malice ; plots eternally 
a-forging to destroy one another's reputations, and 
as honestly to charge the levity of men's tongues 
with the scandal ; hourly debates how to make 
poor gentlemen in love with 'em, with no other 
intent but to use 'em like dogs when they have 
done ; a constant desire of doing more mischief, 



342 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



and an everlasting war waged against truth and 
good-nature. 

Const. Very well, sir ; an admirable composi- 
tion truly ! 

Heart. Then for her outside, I consider it 
merely as an outside ; she has a thin tiffany 
covering, over just such stuff as you and I are 
made on. As for her motion, her mien, her airs, 
and all those tricks, I know they affect you 
mightily. If you should see your mistress at a 
coronation dragging her peacock's train, with all 
her state and insolence about her, 'twould strike 
you with all the awful thoughts that heaven itself 
could pretend to from you ; whereas I turn the 
whole matter into a jest, and suppose her strutting 
in the self-same stately manner, with nothing on but 
her stays, and her under scanty quilted petticoat. 

Const. Hold thy profane tongue ! for I'll hear 
no more. 

Heart. What ! you'll love on then ? 
Const. Yes, to eternity. 
Heart. Yet you have no hopes at all. 
Const. None. 

Heart. Nay, the resolution may be discreet 
enough ; perhaps you have found out some new 
philosophy, that love's like virtue, its own reward. 
So you and your mistress will be as well content at 
a distance, as others that have less learning are in 
coming together. 

Const. No ; but if she should prove kind at last, 
my dear Heartfree. [Embracing him. 

Heart. Nay, prithee, don't take me for your 
mistress, for lovers are very troublesome. 

Const. Well, who knows what time may do ! 
Heart. And just now he was sure time could do 
nothing. 

Const. Yet not one kind glance in two years, is 
somewhat strange. 

Heart. Not strange at all ; she don't like you, 
that's all the business. 

Const. Prithee, don't distract me. 
Heart. Nay, you are a good handsome young 
fellow, she might use you better. Come, will you 
go see her ? Perhaps she may have changed her 
mind ; there's some hopes as long as she's a 
woman. 

Const. Oh, 'tis in vain to visit her ! Sometimes 
to get a sight of her I visit that beast her husband ; 
but she certainly finds some pretence to quit the 
room as soon as I enter. 

Heart. It's much she don't tell him you have 
made love to her too, for that's another good- 
natured thing usual amongst women, in which they 
have several ends. Sometimes 'tis to recommend 
their virtue, that they may be lewd with the 
greater security. Sometimes 'tis to make their 
husbands fight, in hopes they may be killed when 
their affairs require it should be so : but most com- 
monly 'tis to engage two men in a quarrel, that 
they may have the credit of being fought for ; and 
if the lover's killed in the business, they cry, Poor 
fellow, he had ill luck ! — and so they go to 
cards. 

Const. Thy injuries to women are not to be for- 
given. Look to't, if ever thou dost fall into their 
hands — 

Heart. They can't use me worse then they do 
you, that speak well of 'em. — O ho ! here comes 
the knight. 



Enter Sir John Brute. 
Your humble servant, sir John. 
Sir John. Servant, sir. 
Heart. How does all your family ? 
Sir John. Pox o' my family ! 
Const. How does your lady ? i han't seen her 
abroad a good while. 

Sir John. Do ! I don't know how she does, not 
I ; she was well enough yesterday : I han't been at 
home to-night. 

Const. What, were you out of town ? 
Sir John. Out of town ! no, I was drinking. 
Const. You are a true Englishman ; don't know 
your own happiness. If I were married to such a 
woman, I would not be from her a night for all the 
wine in France. 

Sir John. Not from her ! Oons ; what a time 
should a man have of that ! 

Heart. Why, there's no division, I hope. 
Sir John. No ; but there's a conjunction, and 
that's worse ; a pox of the parson ! — Why the 
plague don't you two marry ? I fancy I look like 
the devil to you. 

Heart. Why, you don't think you have horns, 
do you ? 

Sir John. No, I believe my wife's religion will 
keep her honest. 

Heart. And what will make her keep her religion? 
Sir John. Persecution ; and therefore she shall 
have it. 

Heart. Have a care, knight ; women are tender 
things. 

Sir John. And yet, methinks, 'tis a hard matter 
to break their hearts. 

Const. Fy ! f y ! you have one of the best wives 
in the world, and yet you seem the most uneasy 
husband. 

Sir John. Best wives ! — the woman's well 
enough, she has no vice that I know of, but she's 
a wife, and — damn a wife ! If I were married to a 
hogshead of claret, matrimony would make me 
hate it. 

Heart. Why did you marry, then? you were 
old enough to know your own mind. 

Sir John. Why did I marry ! I married be- 
cause I had a mind to lie with her, and she would 
not let me. 

Heart. Why did not you ravish her ? 
Sir John. Yes ! and so have hedged myself into 
forty quarrels with her relations, besides buying 
my pardon. But more than all that, you must 
know, I was afraid of being damned in those days ; 
for I kept sneaking cowardly company, fellows that 
went to church, said grace to their meat, and had 
not the least tincture of quality about 'em. 

Heart. But I think you have got into a better 
gang now. 

Sir John. Zoons, sir, my lord Rake and I are 
hand and glove, I believe we may get our bones 
broke together to-night ; have you a mind to share 
a frolic ? 

Const. Not I, truly ; my talent lies to softer 
exercises. 

Sir John. What, a down-bed and a strumpet ? 
A pox of venery ! I say. Will you come and drink 
with me this afternoon ? 

Const. 1 can't drink to-day, but we'll come and 
sit an hour with you if you will. 

Sir John. Phu ! pox, sit an hour ! Why can't 
you drink ? 



SCENE II. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



343 



Const. Because I'm to see my mistress. 

Sir John. Who's that ? 

Const. Why, do you use to tell ? 

Sir John. Yes. 

Const. So won't I. 

Sir John. Why ? 

Const. Because 'tis a secret. 

Sir John. Would my wife knew it, 'twould be 
no secret long. 

Const. Why, do you think she can't keep a 
secret ? 

Sir John. No more than she can keep Lent. 

Heart. Prithee, tell it her to try, Constant. 

Sir John. No, prithee, don't, that I mayn't be 
plagued with it. 

Const. I'll hold you a guinea you don't make 
her tell it you. 

Sir John. I'll hold you a guinea I do. 

Const. Which way ? 

Sir John. Why, I'll beg her not to tell it me. 

Heart. Nay, if anything does it, that will. 

Const. But do you think, six' — 

Sir John. Oons, sir, I think a woman and a 
secret are the two impertinentest themes in the 
universe ! Therefore, pray let's hear no more of 
my wife nor your mistress. Damn 'em both with 
all my heart, and everything else that daggles a 
petticoat, except four generous whores, with Betty 
Sands at the head of 'em, who are drunk with my 
lord Rake and I ten times in a fortnight. {Exit. 

Const. Here's a dainty fellow for you ! and the 
veriest coward too. But his usage of his wife 
makes me ready to stab the villain. 

Heart. Lovers are short-sighted : all their senses 
run into that of feeling. This proceeding of his is 
the only thing on earth can make your fortune. If 
anything can prevail with her to accept of a gallant, 
'tis his ill usage of her ; for women will do more 
for revenge than they'll do for the gospel. Prithee 
take heart, I have great hopes for you ; and since 
I can't bring you quite off of her, I'll endeavour to 
bring you quite on ; for a whining lover is the 
damn'dest companion upon earth. 

Const. My dear friend, flatter me a little more 
with these hopes ; for whilst they prevail, I have 
heaven within me, and could melt with joy. 

Heart. Pray, no melting yet : let things go far- 
ther first. This afternoon perhaps we shall make 
some advance. In the meanwhile, let's go dine at 
Locket's, and let hope get you a stomach. 

{Exeunt. 



SCENE II 



■A Room in Lady Fancy ful's 
House. 



Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle!. 

Lady Fan. Did you ever see anything so im 
portune, Mademoiselle ? 

Mad. Inteed, matam, to say de trute, he wanted 
leetel good-breeding. 

Lady Fan. Good-breeding ! he wants to be 
caned, Mademoiselle : an insolent fellow ! And 
yet let me expose my weakness, 'tis the only man 
on earth I could resolve to dispense my favours on, 
were he but a fine gentleman. Well, did men but 
know how deep an impression a fine gentleman 
makes in a lady's heart, they would reduce all their 
studies to that of good-breeding alone. 



Enter Cornet. 

Cor. Madam, here's Mr. Treble. He has brought 
home the verses your ladyship made, and gave him 
to set. 

Lady Fan. O let him come in by all means 

[Exit Cornet.] — Now, Mademoiselle, am I going 
to be unspeakably happy. 

Enter Treble and Pipe. 

So, Mr. Treble, you have set my little dialogue ? 

Treb. Yes, madam, and I hope your ladyship 
will be pleased with it. 

Lady Fan. Oh, no doubt on't ; for really, Mr. 
Treble, you set all things to a wonder. But your 
music is in particular heavenly when you have my 
words to clothe in't. 

Treb. Your words themselves, madam, have so 
much music in 'em, they inspire me. 

Lady Fan. Nay, now you make me blush, Mr. 
Treble ; but pray let's hear what you have done. 

Treb. You shall, madam. 



Treble and Pipe sing. 



Treb. 



Ah ! lovely nymph, the world's on fire ; 
Veil, veil those cruel eyes ! 
Pipe. The world may then in flames expire, 
And boast that so it dies. 

Treb. But when all mortals are destroy'd, 
Who then shall sing your praise ? 

Pipe. Those who are fit to be employ'd : 
The gods shall altars raise. 

Treb. How does your ladyship like it, madam ? 

Lady Fan. Rapture, rapture, Mr. Treble, I'm 
all rapture ! O wit and art, what power you have, 
when joined ! I must needs tell you the birth of 
this little dialogue, Mr. Treble. Its father was a 
dream, and its mother was the moon. I dreamt 
that by an unanimous vote I was chosen queen of 
that pale world : and that the first time I appeared 
upon my throne — all my subjects fell in love with 
me. Just then I waked, and seeing pen, ink, and 
paper lie idle upon the table, I slid into my morn- 
ing-gown, and writ this impromptu. 

Treb. So I guess the dialogue, madam, is sup- 
posed to be between your majesty, and your first 
minister of state. 

Lady Fan. Just. He as minister advises me to 
trouble my head about the welfare of my subjects ; 
which I as sovereign find a very impertinent pro- 
posal. But is the town so dull, Mr. Treble, it 
affords us never another new song ? 

Treb. Madam, I have one in my pocket, came 
out but yesterday, if your ladyship pleases to let 
Mrs. Pipe sing it. 

Lady Fan. By all means. — Here, Pipe, make 
what music you can of this song here. 

Pipe sings. 

Not an angel dwells above 
Half so fair as her I love, 

Heaven knows how she'll receive me : 
If she smiles, I'm blest indeed ; 
If she frowns, I'm quickly freed ; 

Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve me. 

None can love her more than I, 
Yet she ne'er shall make me die. 

If my flame can never warm her , 
Lasting beauty I'll adore, 
I shall never love her more, 

Cruelty will so deform her. 



344 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



ACT III. 



Lady Fan. Very well. — This is Heartfree's 
poetry, without question. 

Treb. Won't your ladyship please to sing your- 
self this morning ? 

Lady Fan. O Lord, Mr. Treble, my cold is still 
so barbarous to refuse me that pleasure. He, — he, 
—hem. [Coughs. 

Treb. I'm very sorry for it, madam. Methinks 
all mankind should turn physicians for the cure 
on't. 

Lady Fan. Why truly, to give mankind their 
due, there's few that know me, but have offered 
their remedy. 

Treb. They have reason, madam : for I know 
nobody sings so near a cherubim as your ladyship. 

Lady Fan. What I do, I owe chiefly to your 
skill and care, Mr. Treble. People do flatter me, in- 
deed, that I have a voice, and aje-ne-sais-quoi in the 
conduct of it, that will make music of anything. 
And truly I begin to believe so, since what happened 
t'other night. Would you think it, Mr. Treble ? 
walking pretty late in the Park (for I often walk 
late in the Park, Mr. Treble) a whim took me to 
sing Chevy-Chase, and would you believe it ? next 
morning I had three copies of verses and six bil- 
lets-doux at my levee upon it. 

Treb. And without all dispute you deserved as 
many more, madam. Are there any further com- 
mands for your ladyship's humble servant ? 

Lady Fan. Nothing more at this time, Mr. 
Treble. But I shall expect you here every morn- 
ing for this month, to sing my little matter there 
to me. I'll reward you for your pains. 

Treb. O Lord, madam ! — 

Lady Fan. Good morrow, sweet Mr. Treble. 

Treb. Your ladyship's most obedient servant. 

[Exit with Pipe. 
Re-enter Cornet. 

Cor. Will your ladyship please to dine yet ? 

Lady Fan. Yes, let 'em serve. — [Exit Cornet.] 



Sure this Heartfree has bewitched me, Mademoi- 
selle. You can't imagine how oddly he mixed 
himself in my thoughts during my rapture e'en 
now. I vow 'tis a thousand pities he is not more 
polished : don't you think so ? 

Mad. Matam, I tink it so great pity, dat if I 
was in your ladyship place, I take him home in my 
house, I lock him up in my closet, and I never let 
him go till I teach him everyting dat fine laty 
expect from fine gentleman. 

Lady Fan. Why truly I believe I should soon 
subdue his brutality ; for without doubt he has a 
strange penchant to grow fond of me, in spite of 
his aversion to the sex, else he would ne'er have 
taken so much pains about me. Lord, how proud 
would some poor creatures be of such a conquest ! 
But I, alas, I don't know how to receive as a favour, 
what I take to be so infinitely my due. But what 
shall I do to new-mould him, Mademoiselle ? for 
till then he's my utter aversion. 

Mad. Matam, you must laugh at him in all de 
place dat you meet him, and turn into de ridicule 
all he say and all he do. 

Lady Fan. Why truly, satire has ever been of 
wondrous use to reform ill-manners. Besides, 'tis my 
particular talent to ridicule folks. I can be severe, 
strangely severe, when I will, Mademoiselle. — 
Give me the pen and ink — I find myself whimsi- 
cal — I'll write to him. — Or I'll let it alone, and be 
severe upon him that way. — [Sits down to write, 
rises up again.] Yet active severity is better than 
passive. — [Sits down.] 'Tis as good let it alone 
too ; for every lash I give him perhaps he'll take 
for a favour — [Rises.] Yet 'tis a thousand pities 
so much satire should be lost. — [Site.] But if it 
should have a wrong effect upon him, 'twould dis- 
tract me. — [Rises.] Well, I must write though, 
after all. — [Site.] Or I'll let it alone, which is the 
same thing — [Rises. 

Mad. [Aside.] La voila determinee. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I.— A Room in Sir John Brute's House. 

Sir John Brute, Lady Brute, and Belinda, discovered 

rising from table ; Servant waiting. 

Sir John. [To Servant.] Here, take away the 
things ; I expect company. But first bring me a 
pipe ; I'll smoke. 
[Servant gives Sir John a pipe, removes the things, and 
exit. 

Lady Brute. Lord, sir John, I wonder you 
won't ieave that nasty custom ! 

Sir John. Prithee don't be impertinent. 

Bel. [Aside to Lady Brute.] I wonder who 
those are he expects this afternoon ? 

Lady Brute. I'd give the world to know. Per- 
haps 'tis Constant, he comes here sometimes ; if it 
does prove him, I'm resolved I'll share the visit. 

Bel. We'll send for our work and sit here. 

Lady Brute. He'll choke us with his tobacco. 

Bel. Nothing will choke us when we are doing 
what we have a mind to. — Lovewell ! [Calls. 



Enter Lovewell. 



Love. Madam ! 



Lady Brute. Here; bring my cousin's work 
and mine hither. 

[Exit Lovewell, re-enters with their work, and then 
retires. 

Sir John. Whu ! Pox ! can't you work some- 
where else ? 

Lady Brute. We shall be careful not to disturb 
you, sir. 

Bel. Your pipe will make you too thoughtful, 
uncle, if you were left alone ; our prittle -prattle 
will cure your spleen. 

Sir John. Will it so, Mrs. Pert ? Now I be- 
lieve it will so increase it, — [Sitting and smoking] 
I shall take my own house for a paper mill. 

Lady Brute. [Aside to Belinda.] Don't let's 
mind him ; let him say what he will. 

Sir John. A woman's tongue a cure for the 
spleen — oons ! — [Aside.] If a man had got the 
headache, they'd be for applying the same remedy. 

Lady Brute. You have done a great deal, Be- 
linda, since yesterday. 

Bel. Yes, I have worked very hard : how do 
you like it ? 

Lady Brute. Oh, 'tis the prettiest fringe in the 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



345 



world ! Well, cousin, you have the happiest fancy: 
prithee advise me about altering my crimson pet- 
ticoat. 

Sir John. A pox o' youi petticoat ! Here's 
such a prating, a man can't digest his own thoughts 
for you. 

Lady Brute. Don't answer him. — Well, what 
do you advise me ? 

Bel. Why really I would not alter it at all. 
Methinks 'tis very pretty as it is. 

Lady Brute. Ay, that's true : but you know 
one grows weary of the prettiest things in the 
world, when one has had 'em long. 

Sir John. Yes, I have taught her that. 

Bel. Shall we provoke him a little ? 

Lady Brute. With all my heart. — Belinda, 
don't you long to be married ? 

Bel. Why, there are some things in it I could 
like well enough. 

Lady Brute. What do you think you should 
dislike ? 

Bel. My husband, a hundred to one else. 

Lady Brute. O ye wicked wretch ! sure you 
don't speak as you think. 

Bel. Yes, I do: especially if he smoked tobacco. 
[Sir John looks earnestly at them. 

Lady Brute. Why, that many times takes off 
worse smells. 

Bel. Then he must smell very ill indeed. 

Lady Brute. So some men will, to keep their 
wives from coming near 'em. 

Bel. Then those wives should cuckold 'em at a 

distance. 

£Sir John rises in a fury, throws Ms pipe at them, and 

drives them out. As they go off Lady Brute runs 

against Constant. 

Enter Constant and Heartfree, a Servant following. 

Sir John. Oons, get you gone up stairs, you 
confederating strumpets you, or I'll cuckold you 
with a vengeance ! 

Lady Brute. O Lord, he'll beat us, he'll beat 
us ! — Dear, dear Mr. Constant, save us ! 

[Exit with Belinda. 

Sir John. I'll cuckold you, with a pox ! 

Const. Heavens, sir John ! what's the matter ? 

Sir John. Sure, if woman had been ready 
created, the devil, instead of being kicked down 
into hell, had been married. 

H eart. Why, what new plague have youfound now? 

Sir John. Why these two gentlewomen did but 
hear me say, I expected you here this afternoon ; 
upon which they presently resolved to take up the 
room, o' purpose to plague me and my friends. 

Const. Was that all? Why we should have 
been glad of their company. 

Sir John. Then I should have been weary of 
yours : for I can't relish both together. They 
found fault with my smoking tobacco too ; and 
said, men stunk. But I have a good mind— to say 
something. 

Const. No, nothing against the ladies, pray. 

Sir John. Split the ladies ! Come, will you sit 
down? — [To Servant] Give us some wine, fel- 
low. — You won't smoke ? 

Const. No, nor drink neither at this time, I must 
ask your pardon. 

Sir John. What, this mistress of yours runs in 
your head ; I'll warrant it's some such squeamish 
minx as my wife, that's grown so dainty of late 
she finds fault even with a dirty shirt. 



Heart. That a woman may do, and not be very 
dainty neither. 

Sir John. Pox o' the women ! let's drink. 
Come, you shall take one glass, though I send 
for a box of lozenges to sweeten your mouth 
after it. 

Const. Nay, if one glass will satisfy you, I'll 
drink it, without putting you to that expense. 

Sir John. Why that's honest.- — [ To Servant, who 
fills the glasses and exit.] Fill some wine, sirrah 1 
— So, here's to you, gentlemen ! — A wife's the 
devil. To your being both married ? [They drink. 

Heart. O your most humble servant, sir. 

Sir John. Well, how do you like my wine ? 

Const. 'Tis very good indeed. 

Heart. 'Tis admirable. 

Sir John. Then give us t'other glass. 

Const. No, pray excuse us now. We'll come 
another time, and then we won't spare it. 

Sir John. This one glass, and no more. Come, 
it shall be your mistress's health : and that's a 
great compliment from me, I assure you. 

Const. And 'tis a very obliging one to me : so 
give us the glasses. 

Sir John. So : let her live ! 

[They drink .- Sir John coughs in the glass. 

Heart. And be kind. 

Const. What's the matter ? does it go the wrong 
way ? 

Sir John. If I had love enough to be jealous, 
I shoxdd take this for an ill omen : for I never 
drank my wife's health in my life, but 1 puked in 
the glass. 

Const. Oh she's too virtuous to make a reason- 
able man jealous. 

Sir John. Pox of her virtue ! If I could but 
catch her adulterating, I might be divorced from 
her by law. 

Heart. And so pay her a yearly pension, to be a 
distinguished cuckold. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Serv. Sir, there's my lord Rake, colonel Bully, 
and some other gentlemen, at the Blue-posts, desire 
your company. [Exit. 

Sir John. Cod's so, we are to consult about 
playing the devil to-night. 

Heart. Well, we won't hinder business. 

Sir John. Methinks I don't know how to leave 
you though ; but for once I must make bold. Or 
look you, maybe the conference mayn't last long : 
so if you'll wait here half an hour, or an hour ; if 
I don't come then— why then — I won't come at all. 

Heart. [Aside to Constant.] A good modest 
proposition truly ! 

Const. But let's accept on't however. Who 
knows what may happen ! 

Heart. Well, sir, to show you how fond we are 
of your company, we'll expect your return as long 
as we can. 

Sir John. Nay, maybe I mayn't stay at all : but 
business, you know, must be done. So your ser- 
vant — or, hark you, if you have a mind to take a 
frisk with us, I have an interest with my lord, I 
can easily introduce you. 

Const. We are much beholden to you : but for 
my part, I'm engaged another way. 

Sir John. What, to your mistress, I'll warrant! 
Prithee leave your nasty punk to entertain herself 
with her own lewd thoughts, and make one with us 
to-night. 



346 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



ACT III. 



Const. Sir, 'tis business that is to employ me. 

Heart. And me ; and business must be done, 
you know. 

Sir John. Ay, women's business, though the 
world were consumed for't. {.Exit. 

Const. Farewell, beast ! — And now, my dear 
friend, would my mistress be but as complaisant as 
some men's wives, who think it a piece of good- 
breeding to receive the visits of their husband's 
friends in his absence ! 

Heart. Why for your sake I could forgive her, 
though she should be so complaisant to receive 
something else in his absence. But what way 
shall we invent to see her ? 

Const. O ne'er hope it : invention will prove as 
vain as wishes. 

Re-enter Lady Brute and Belinda. 

Heart. [Aside to Constant.] What do you 
think now, friend ? 

Const. I think I shall swoon. 

Heart. I'll speak first then, whilst you fetch 
breath. 

Lady Brute. We think ourselves obliged, gentle- 
men, to come and return you thanks for your 
knight-errantry. We were just upon being devour- 
ed by the fiery dragon. 

Bel. Did not his fumes almost knock you down, 
gentlemen ? 

Heart. Truly, ladies, we did undergo some hard- 
ships ; and should have done more, if some greater 
heroes than ourselves hard by had not diverted 
him. 

Const. Though I'm glad of the service you are 
pleased to say we have done you, yet I'm sorry we 
could do it no other way than by making our- 
selves privy to what you would perhaps have kept 
a secret. 

Lady Brute. For sir John's part, I suppose he 
designed it no secret, since he made so much noise : 
and, for myself, truly I am not much concerned, 
since 'tis fallen only into this gentleman's hands 
and yours, who, I have many reasons to believe, 
will neither interpret nor report anything to my 
disadvantage. 

Const. Your good opinion, madam, was what I 
feared I never could have merited. 

Lady Brute. Your fears were vain then, sir ; for 
I am just to everybody. 

Heart. Prithee, Constant, what is't you do to 
get the ladies' good opinions, for I'm a novice at it ? 

Bel. Sir, will you give me leave to instruct you ? 

Heart. Yes, that I will, with all my soul, madam. 

Bel. Why then you must never be slovenly, 
never be out of humour ; fare well, and cry roast- 
meat ; smoke tobacco, nor drink but when you are 
a-dry. 

Heart. That's hard. 

Const. Nay, if you take his bottle from him, you 
break his heart, madam. 

Bel. Why, is it possible the gentleman can love 
drinking ? 

Heart. Only by way of antidote. 

Bel. Against what, pray ? 

Heart. Against love, madam. 

Lady Brute. Are you afraid of being in love, sir ? 

Heart. I should, if there were any danger of it. 

Lady Brute. Pray, why so ? 

Heart. Because I always had an aversion to 
being used like a dog. 



Bel. Why, truly, men in love are seldom used 
better. 

Lady Brute. But was you never in love, sir ? 

Heart. No, I thank Heaven, madam. 

Bel. Pray where got you your learning, then ? 

Heart. From other people's expense. 

Bel. That's being a spunger, sir, which is scarce 
honest. If you'd buy some experience with your 
own money, as 'twould be fairlier got, so 'twould 
stick longer by you. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Serv. Madam, here's my lady Fancyful, to wait 
upon your ladyship. {Exit. 

Lady Brute. Shield me, kind Heaven ' What 
an inundation of impertinence is here coming upon 
us ! 

Enter Lady Fancyitul, who runs first to Lady Brute, 
then to Belinda, kissing them. 

Lady Fan. My dear lady Brute ! and sweet 
Belinda ! methinks 'tis an age since I saw you. 

Lady Brute. Yet 'tis but three days ; sure you 
have passed your time very ill, it seems so long to 
you. 

Lady Fan. Why really, to confess the truth to 
you, I am so everlastingly fatigued with the ad- 
dresses of unfortunate gentlemen, that were it not 
for the extravagancy of the example, I should e'en 
tear out these wicked eyes with my own fingers, to 
make both myself and mankind easy. — What think 
you on't, Mr. Heartfree, for I take you to be my 
faithful adviser ? 

Heart. Why truly, madam, I think every pro- 
ject that is for the good of mankind ought to be 
encouraged. 

Lady Fan. Then I have your consent, sir — 

Heart. To do whatever you please, madam. 

Lady Fan. You had a much more limited com- 
plaisance this morning, sir. — Would you believe it, 
ladies ? the gentleman has been so exceeding gene- 
rous, to tell me of above fifty faults in less time 
than it was well possible for me to commit two 
of 'em. 

Const. Why truly, madam, my friend there is apt 
to be something familiar with the ladies. 

Lady Fan. He is, indeed, sir ; but he's won- 
drous charitable with it. He has had the goodness 
to design a reformation, even down to my fingers'- 
ends. — 'Twas thus, I think, sir, you'd have had 'em 
stand 1 — [Opening her fingers in an awkward man- 
ner.~\ My eyes too he did not like. — How was't 
you would have directed 'em ? — Thus, I think. — 
[Staring at him.'] Then there was something amiss 
in my gait too ! I don't know well how 'twas, but, 
as I take it, he would have had me walk like him. 
— Pray, sir, do me the favour to take a turn or two 
about the room, that the company may see you. — 
He's sullen, ladies, and won't. But, to make short, 
and give you as true an idea as I can of the matter, 
1 think 'twas much about this figure in general he 
would have moulded me to : but I was an obstinate 
woman, and could not resolve to make myself mis- 
tress of his heart by growing as awkward as his 
fancy. 

{She walks awkwardly about, staring ana looking 
ungainly ; then changes on a sudden to the 
extremity of her usual affectation. 

Heart. Just thus women do, when they think 
we are in love with 'em, or when they are so with us. 

{Here Constant and Lady Brute talk together apart. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



347 



Lady Fan. 'Twould, however, be less vanity for 
me to conclude the former than you the latter, sir. 

Heart. Madam, all I shall presume to conclude 
is, that if I were in love, you'd find the means to 
make me soon weary on't. 

Lady Fan. Not by over-fondness, upon my word, 
sir. — But pray let's stop here ; for you are so much 
governed by instinct, I know you'll grow brutish at 
last. 

Bel. [Aside.] Now I'm sure she's fond of him ; 
I'll try to make her jealous. — [Aloud.] Well, for 
my part, I should be glad to find somebody would 
be so free with me, that I might know my faults, 
and mend 'em. 

Lady Fan. Then pray let me recommend this 
gentleman to you : I have known him some time, 
and will be surety for him, that upon a very limited 
encouragement on your side, you shall find an 
extended impudence on his. 

Heart. I thank you, madam, for your recom- 
mendation : but hating idleness, I'm unwilling to 
enter into a place where I believe there would be 
nothing to do. I was fond of serving your lady- 
ship, because I knew you'd find me constant em- 
ployment. 

Lady Fan. I told you he'd be rude, Belinda ! 

Bel. Oh, a little bluntness is a sign of honesty, 
which makes me always ready to pardon it. — So, 
sir, if you have no other exceptions to my service, 
but the fear of being idle in 't, you may venture 
to list yourself: I shall find you work, I warrant 
you. 

Heart. Upon those terms I engage, madam ; 
and this (with your leave) I take for earnest. 

[Offering to kiss her hand. 

Bel. Hold there, sir ! I'm none of your earnest- 
givers : but if I'm well served, I give good wages, 
and pay punctually. 

[Heartfree and Belinda talk familiarly apart. 

I^ady Fan. [Aside.] I don't like this jesting 
between 'em. — Methinks the fool begins to look as 
if he were in earnest ; — but then he must be a fool 
indeed !— Lard, what a difference there is between 
me and her ! — [Looking at Belinda scornfully.] 
— How I should despise such a thing, if I were a 
man ! — What a nose she has ! what a chin ! what 
a neck ! — Then, her eyes ! — and the worst kissing 
lips in the universe ! — No, no, he can never like 
her, that's positive.— Yet I can't suffer 'em toge- 
ther any longer. — [Aloud.] — Mr. Heartfree, do 
you know that you and I must have no quarrel for 
all this ? — I can't forbear being a little severe now 
and then : but women, you know, may be allowed 
anything. 

Heart. Up to a certain age, madam. 

Lady Fan. Which I'm not yet past, I hope. 

Heart. [Aside.] Nor never will, I dare swear. 

Lady Fan. [To Lady Brute.] Come, madam, 
will your ladyship be witness to our reconciliation ? 

Lady Brute. You agree then at last. 

Heart. [Slightingly.] We forgive. 

Lady Fan. [Aside.] That was a cold, ill-natured 
reply. 

Lady Brute. Then there's no challenges sent 
between you ? 

Heart. Not from me, I promise! — [Aside to 
Constant.] But that's more than I'll do for her, 
for I know she can as well be damned as forbear 
writing to me. 

Const. That I believe. But I think we had best 



be going, lest she should suspect something, and 
be malicious. 

Heart. With all my heart. 

Const. Ladies, we are your humble servants. I 
see sir John is quite engaged, 'twould be in vain to 
expect him. — Come, Heartfree. 

Heart. Ladies, your servant. — [To Belinda.] 
I hope, madam, you won't forget our bargain ; 
I'm to say what 1 please to you. 

Bel. Liberty of speech entire, sir. 

[Exeunt Heartfree and Constant. 

Lady Fan. [Aside.] Very pretty truly ! — But 
how the blockhead went out ! languishing at her ; 
and not a look toward me ! — Well, churchmen may 
talk, but miracles are not ceased. For 'tis more 
than natural, such a rude fellow as he, and such a 
little impertinent as she, should be capable of mak- 
ing a woman of my sphere uneasy. But I can bear 
her sight no longer. — Methinks she's grown ten 
times uglier than Cornet. I must go home, and study 
revenge. — [To Lady Brute.] Madam, your hum- 
ble servant ; I must take my leave. 

Lady Brute. What, going already, madam ? 

Lady Fan. I must beg you'll excuse me this 
once ; for really I have eighteen visits to return 
this afternoon. So you see I am importuned by 
the women as well as the men. 

Bel. [Aside.] And she's quits with 'em both. 

Lady Fan. [Going.] Nay, you shan't go one 
step out of the room. 

Lady Brute. Indeed I'll wait upon you down. 

Lady Fan. No, sweet lady Brute, you know I 
swoon at ceremony. 

Lady Brute. Pray, give me leave. 

Lady Fan. You know I won't. 

Lady Brute. Indeed I must. 

Lady Fan. Indeed you shan't. 

Lady Brute. Indeed I will. 

Lady Fan. Indeed you shan't. 

Lady Brute. Indeed I will, 

Lady Fan. Indeed you shan't. Indeed, indeed, 
indeed you shan't. 

[Exit running, Lady Brute and Belinda following. 

Re-enter Lady Brute. 

Lady Brute. This impertinent woman has put 
me out of humour for a fortnight. — What an agree- 
able moment has her foolish visit interrupted ! — 
Lord, how like a torrent love flows into the heart, 
when once the sluice of desire is opened ! Good 
gods ! what a pleasure there is in doing what we 
should not do ! 

Re-enter Constant. 

Ha ! here again ? 

Const. Though the renewing my visit may seem 
a little irregular, I hope I shall obtain your pardon 
for it, madam, when you know I only left the room, 
lest the lady who was here should have been as 
malicious in her remarks, as she's foolish in her 
conduct. 

Lady Brute. He who has discretion enough to 
be tender of a woman's reputation, carries a virtue 
about him may atone for a great many faults. 

Const. If it has a title to atone for any, its pre- 
tensions must needs be strongest, where the crime 
is love. I therefore hope I shall be forgiven the 
attempt I have made upon your heart, since my 
enterprise has been a secret to all the world but 
yourself. 

Lady Brute. Secrecy indeed in sins of this kind 



348 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



is an argument of weight to lessen the punishment; 
but nothing's a plea for a pardon entire, without a 
sincere repentance. 

Const. If sincerity in repentance consists in sor- 
row for offending, no cloister ever inclosed so true 
a penitent as I should be. But I hope it cannot 
be reckoned an offence to love, where 'tis a duty to 
adore. 

Lady Brute. 'Tis an offence, a great one, where 
it would rob a woman of all she ought to be adored 
for, her virtue. 

Const. Virtue ! — Virtue, alas, is no more like 
the thing that's called so, than 'tis like vice itself. 
Virtue consists in goodness, honour, gratitude, 
sincerity, and pity ; and not in peevish, snarling, 
strait-laced chastity. True virtue, wheresoe'er it 
moves, still carries an intrinsic worth about it, and 
is in every place, and in each sex, of equal value. 
So is not continence, you see : that phantom of 
honour, which men in every age have so contemned, 
they have thrown it amongst the women to scrab- 
ble for. 

Lady Brute. If it be a thing of so very little 
value, why do you so earnestly recommend it to 
your wives and daughters ? 

Const. We recommend it to our wives, madam, 
because we would keep 'em to ourselves ; and to 
our daughters, because we would dispose of 'em to 
others. 

Lady Brute. 'Tis then of some importance, it 
seems, since you can't dispose of 'em without it. 

Const. That importance, madam, lies in the 
humour of the country, not in the nature of the 
thing. 

Lady Brute. How do you prove that, sir ? 

Const. From the wisdom of a neighbouring 
nation in a contrary practice. In monarchies 
things go by whimsy, but commonwealths weigh 
all things in the scale of reason. 

Lady Brute. I hope we are not so very light a 
people, to bring up fashions without some ground. 

Const. Pray what does your ladyship think of a 
powdered coat for deep mourning ? 

Lady Brute. I think, sir, your sophistry has all 
the effect that you can reasonably expect it should 
have ; it puzzles, but don't convince. 

Const. I'm sorry for it. 

Lady Brute. I'm sorry to hear you say so. 

Const. Pray why ? 

Lady Brute. Because if you expected more from 
it, you have a worse opinion of my understanding 
than I desire you should have. 

Const. [Aside.] I comprehend her : she would 
have me set a value upon her chastity, that I may 
think myself the more obliged to her when she 
-nakes me a present of it. — [Aloud.] I beg you 
will believe I did but rally, madam ; I know you 
judge too well of right and wrong to be deceived 
by arguments like those. I hope you'll have so 
favourable an opinion of my understanding too, to 
believe the thing called virtue has worth enough 
with me to pass for an eternal obligation where'er 
'tis sacrificed. 

Lady Brute. It is, I think, so great a one, as 
nothing can repay. 

Const. Yes ; the making the man you love your 
everlasting debtor. 

Lady Brute. When debtors once have borrowed 
all we have to lend, they are very apt to grow shy 
of their creditors' company 



Const. That, madam, is only when they are 
forced to borrow of usurers, and not of a generous 
friend. Let us choose our creditors, and we are 
seldom so ungrateful to shun 'em. 

Lady Brute. What think you of sir John, sir ? 
I was his free choice. 

Const. I think he's married, madam. 

Lady Brute. Does marriage then exclude men 
from your rule of constancy ? 

Const. It does. Constancy's a brave, free, 
haughty, generous agent, that cannot buckle to the 
chains of wedlock. There's a poor sordid slavery 
in marriage, that turns the flowing tide of honour, 
and sinks us to the lowest ebb of infamy. 'Tis a 
corrupted soil ; ill-nature, avarice, sloth, cowardice, 
and dirt, are all its product. 

Lady Brute. Have you no exceptions to this 
general rule, as well as to t'other ? 

Const. Yes ; I would (after all) be an exception 
to it myself, if you were free in power and will to 
make me so. 

Lady Brute. Compliments are well placed, 
where 'tis impossible to lay hold on 'em. 

Const. I would to heaven 'twere possible foi 
you to lay hold on mine, that you might see it is 
no compliment at all. But since you are already 
disposed of beyond redemption, to one who does 
not know the value of the jewel you have put into 
his hands, I hope you would not think him greatly 
wronged, though it should sometimes be looked 
on by a friend, who knows how to esteem it as he 
ought. 

Lady Brute. If looking on't alone would serve 
his turn, the wrong perhaps might not be very 
great. 

Const. Why, what if he should wear it now and 
then a day, so he gave good security to bring it 
home again at night ? 

Lady Brute. Small security I fancy might serve 
for that. One might venture to take his word. 

Const. Then where's the injury to the owner ? 

Lady Brute. 'Tis injury to him if he think it 
one. For if happiness be seated in the mind, 
unhappiness must be so too. 

Const. Here I close with you, madam, and draw 
my conclusive argument from your own position : 
if the injury lie in the fancy, there needs nothing 
but secrecy to prevent the wrong. 

Lady Brute. [Going.] A surer way to prevent 
it, is to hear no more arguments in its behalf. 

Const. {Following her.] But, madam — 

Lady Brute. But, sir, 'tis my turn to be discreet 
now, and not suffer too long a visit. 

Const. [Catching her hand.] By heaven you 
shall not stir ! till you give me hopes that I shall 
see you again at some more convenient time and 
place. 

Lady Brute. I give you just hopes enough — 
[Breaking from him] to get loose from you : and 
that's all I can afford you at this time. 

[Exit, running. 

Const. Now by all that's great and good, she's 
a charming woman ! In what ecstacy of joy she 
has left me ! For she gave me hope ; did she not 
say she gave me hope ? — Hope ! ay ; what hope ! 
— enough to make me let her go ! — Why that's 
enough in conscience. Or, no matter how 'twas 
spoke ; hope was the word ; it came from her, and 
it was said to me. 



scene hi. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



349 



Re-enter Heartfree. 
Ha, Heartfree I Thou hast done me noble service 
in prattling to the young gentlewoman without 
there ; come to my arms, thou venerable bawd, and 
let me squeeze thee — [Embracing him eagerly] 
as a new pair of stays does a fat country girl, 
when she's carried to court to stand for a maid of 
honour. 

Heart. Why, what the devil's all this rapture 
for? 

Const. Rapture ! there's ground for rapture, 
man; there's hopes, my Heartfree ; hopes, my 
friend ! 

Heart. Hopes ! of what ? 

Const. Why, hopes that my lady and I together 
(for 'tis more than one body's work) should make 
sir John a cuckold. 

Heart. Prithee, what did she say to thee ? 

Const. Say ! what did she not say ? She said 
that — says she — she said — zoons, I don't know 
what she said : but she looked as if she said every- 
thing I'd have her ; and so if thou'lt go to the 
tavern, I'll treat thee with anything that gold can 
buy : I'll give all my silver amongst the drawers, 
make a bonfire before the door, say the plenipos 
have signed the peace, and the Bank of England's 
grown honest. {Exeunt. 



SCENE II The Blue Posts. 

Lord Rake, Sir John Brute, Colonel Bully and others 
discovered at a table, drinking. Page waiting. 

All. Huzza ! 

Rake. Come, boys, charge again. — So. — Con- 
fusion to all order ! Here's liberty of conscience ! 

All. Huzza ! 

Rake. I'll sing you a song I made this morning 
to this purpose. 

Sir John. 'Tis wicked, I hope. 

Bully. Don't my lord tell you he made it ? 

Sir John. Well then, let's ha't. 

Lord Rake sings. 

What a pother of late 

Have they kept in the state 
About setting our consciences free .' 

A bottle has more 

Dispensations in store, 
Than the king and the state can decree. 

When my head's full of wine, 

I o'erflow with design, 
And know no penal laws that can curb me : 

Whate'er I devise, 

Seems good in my eyes, 
And religion ne'er dares to disturb me. 

No saucy remorse 
Intrudes in my course, 
Nor impertinent notions of evil, 
So there's claret in store, 
In peace I've my whore, 
And in peace I jog on to the devil. 

All. So there's claret in store, 
In peace I've my whore, 

Rake. And in peace I jog on to the devil. 

Well, how do you like it, gentlemen ? 

All. O, admirable ! 

Sir John. I would not give a fig for a song that 
is not full of sin and impudence. 

Rake. Then my muse is to your taste. — But 



drink away ; the night steals upon us ; we shall 
want time to be lewd in. — Hey, page, sally out, 
sirrah, and see what's doing in the camp ; we'll 
beat up their quarters presently. 

Page. I'll bring your lordship an exact account. 

{Exit. 

Rake. Now let the spirit of clary go round 1 
Fill me a brimmer. Here's to our forlorn hope ! 
— Courage, knight; victory attends you. 

Sir John. And laurels shall crown me ; drink 
away, and be damned. 

Rake. Again, boys ; t'other glass, and damn 
morality. 

Sir John. [Drunk.] Ay — damn morality ! — 
and damn the watch ! — and let the constable be 
married ! 

All. Huzza ! 

Re-enter Page. 

Rake. How are the streets inhabited, sirrah ? 

Page. My lord, it's Sunday night, they are full 
of drunken citizens. 

Rake. Along then, boys, we shall have a feast. 

Bully. Along, noble knight. 

Sir John. Ay — along, Bully ; and he that says 
sir John Brute is not as drunk and as religious as 
the drunkenest citizen of them all — is a liar, and 
the son of a whore. 

Bully. Why, that was bravely spoke, and like a 
free-born Englishman. 

Sir John. What's that to you, sir, whether I am 
an Englishman or a. Frenchman ? 

Bully. Zoons, you are not angry, sir ? 

Sir John. Zoons, I am angry, sir ! — for if I'm a 
free-born Englishman, what have you to do, even 
to talk of my privileges ? 

Rake. Why, prithee, knight, don't quarrel here, 
leave private animosities to be decided by daylight ; 
let the night be employed against the public enemy* 

Sir John. My lord, I respect you because you 
are a man of quality : but I'll make that fellow 
know, I am within a hair's-breadth as absolute by 
my privileges, as the king of France is by his pre- 
rogative. He by his prerogative takes money where 
it is not his due ; I by my privilege refuse paying 
it where I owe it. Liberty and property, and Old 
England, huzza ! 

All. Huzza ! 

{Exit Sir John, reeling, the rest following him. 



SCENE III.— Lady Brute's Bedchamber. 
Enter Lady Brute and Belinda. 

Lady Brute. Sure, it's late, Belinda ; I begin to 
be sleepy. 

Bel. Yes, 'tis near twelve. Will you go to bed? 

Lady Brute. To bed, my dear ! and by that 
time I am fallen into a sweet sleep (or perhaps a 
sweet dream, which is better and better) sir John 
will come home roaring drunk, and be overjoyed 
he finds me in a condition to be disturbed. 

Bel. Oh, you need not fear him, he's in for all 
night. The servants say he is gone to drink with 
my lord Rake. 

Lady Brute. Nay, 'tis not very likely, indeed, 
such suitable company should part presently. 
What hogs men turn, Belinda, when they grow 
weary of women ! 

Bel. And what owls they are whilst they are 
fond of 'em ! 



350 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



Lady Brute. But that we may forgive well 
enough, because they are so upon our accounts. 

Bel. We ought to do so indeed, but 'tis a hard 
matter. For when a man is really in love he looks 
so insufferably silly, that though a woman liked 
him well enough before, she has then much ado to 
endure the sight of him. And this I take to be the 
reason why lovers are so generally ill used. 

Lady Brute. Well, I own now, I'm well enough 
pleased to see a man look like an ass for me. 

Bel. Ay, I'm pleased he should look like an ass 
too— that is, I am pleased with myself for making 
him look so. 

Lady Brute. Nay, truly, I think if he'd find 
some other way to express his passion, 'twould be 
more to his advantage. 

Bel. Yes ; for then a woman might like his pas- 
sion, and him too. 

Lady Brute. Yet, Belinda, after all, a woman's 
life would be but a dull business, if 'twere not for 
men ; and men that can look like asses too. We 
should never blame fate for the shortness of our 
days ; our time would hang wretchedly upon our 
hands. 

Bel. Why, truly, they do help us off with a good 
share on't. For were there no men in the world, 
o'my conscience, I should be no longer a-dressing 
than I'm a-saying my prayers ; nay, though it 
were Sunday : for you know one may go to church 
without stays on. 

Lady Brute. But don't you think emulation 
might do something? For every woman you see 
desires to be finer than her neighbour. 

Bel. That's only that the men may like her 
better than her neighbour. No ; if there were no 
men, adieu fine petticoats, we should be weary of 
wearing 'em. 

Lady Brute. And adieu plays, we should be 
weary of seeing 'em. 

Bel. Adieu Hyde-Park, the dust would choke us. 

Lady Brute. Adieu St. James's, walking would 
tire us. 

Bel. Adieu London, the smoke would stifle us. 

Lady Brute. And adieu going to church, for 
religion would ne'er prevail with us. 

Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Bel. Our confession is so very hearty, sure we 
merit absolution. 

Lady Brute. Not unless we go through with't, 
and confess all. So, prithee, for the ease of our 
consciences, let's hide nothing. 

Bel. Agreed. 

Lady Brute. Why, then, I confess that I love 
to sit in the fore-front of a box ; for, if one sits 
behind, there's two acts gone perhaps before one's 
found out. And when I am there, if I perceive 
the men whispering and looking upon me, you 
must know I cannot for my life forbear thinking 
they talk to my advantage. And that sets a thou- 
sand little tickling vanities on foot — 

Bel. Just my case for all the world ; but go on. 

Lady Brute. I watch with impatience for the 
next jest in the play, that I may laugh and show 
my white teeth. If the poet has been dull, and 
the jest be long a-coming, I pretend to whisper 
one to my friend, and from thence fall into a little 
small discourse, in which I take occasion to show 
my face in all humours, brisk, pleased, serious, 
melancholy, languishing. — Not that what we say to 
one another causes any of these alterations ; but — 



Bel. Don't trouble yourself to explain ; for, if 
I'm not mistaken, you and I have had some of 
these necessary dialogues before now, with the 
same intention. 

Lady Brute. Why, I'll swear, Belinda, some 
people do give strange agreeable airs to their faces 
in speaking. Tell me true — did you never practise 
in the glass ? 

Bel. Why, did you ? 

Lady Brute. Yes, faith, many a time. 

Bel. And I too, I own it ; both how to speak 
myself, and how to look when others speak. But 
my glass and I could never yet agree what face I 
should make when they come blurt out with a 
nasty thing in a play. For all the men presently 
look upon the women, that's certain; so, laugh we 
must not, though our stays burst for't, because 
that's telling truth, and owning we understand the 
jest : and to look serious is so dull, when the whole 
house is a-laughing. 

Lady Brute. Besides, that looking serious does 
really betray our knowledge in the matter as much 
as laughing with the company would do : for, if 
we did not understand the thing, we should natu- 
rally do like other people. 

Bel. For my part, I always take that occasion 
to blow my nose. 

Lady Brute. You must blow your nose half off 
then at some plays. 

Bel. Why don't some reformer or other beat the 
poet for't? 

Lady Brute. Because he is not so sure of our 
private approbation as of our public thanks. Well, 
sure, there is not upon earth so impertinent a 
thing as women's modesty. 

Bel. Yes ; men's fantasque, that obliges us to 
it. If we quit our modesty, they say we lose our 
charms; and yet they know that very modesty is 
affectation, and rail at our hypocrisy. 

Lady Brute. Thus one would think 'twere a 
hard matter to please 'em, niece : yet our kind 
mother nature has given us something that makes 
amends for all. Let our weakness be what it will, 
mankind will still be weaker ; and whilst there is a 
world 'tis woman that will govern it. But, prithee, 
one word of poor Constant before we go to bed, 
if it be but to furnish matter for dreams. —I dare 
swear he's talking of me now, or thinking of me at 
least, though it be in the middle of his prayers. 

Bel. So he ought, I think ; for you were pleased 
to make him a good round advance to-day, 
madam. 

Lady Brute. Why, I have e'en plagued him 
enough to satisfy any reasonable woman. He has 
besieged me these two years to no purpose. 

Bel. And if he besieged you two years more, he'd 
be well enough paid, so he had the plundering of 
you at last. 

Lady Brute. That may be : but I'm afraid the 
town won't be able to hold out much longer : for, 
to confess the truth to you, Belinda, the garrison 
begins to grow mutinous. 

Bel. Then the sooner you capitulate the better. 

Lady Brute. Yet, methinks, I would fain stay 
a little longer to see you fixed too, that we might 
start together, and see who could love longest. 
What think you, if Heartfree should have a month's 
mind to you ? 

Bel. Why, faith, I could almost be in love with 
him for despising that foolish, affected lady Fancy- 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



351 



ful; but I'm afraid he's too cold ever to warm 
himself by my fire. 

Lady Brute. Then he deserves to be froze to 
death. Would I were a man for your sake, dear 
rogue. [Kissing her. 

Bel. You'd wish yourself a woman again for 
your own, or the men are mistaken. But if I could 
make a conquest of this son of Bacchus, and rival 
his bottle, what should I do with him ? He has 
no fortune, I can't marry him ; and sure you would 
not have me commit fornication. 

Lady Brute. Why, if you did, child, 'twould be 
but a good friendly part ; if 'twere only to keep me 
in countenance whilst I commit — you know what. 

Bel. Well, if I can't resolve to serve you that 
way, I may perhaps some other as much to your 
satisfaction. But pray, how shall we contrive to 
see these blades again quickly ? 



Lady Brute. We must e'en have recourse to the 
old way ; make 'em an appointment 'twixt jest and 
earnest, 'twill look like a frolic, and that you 
know 's a very good thing to save a woman's 
blushes. 

Bel. You advise well ; but where shall it 
be? 

Lady Brute. In Spring-Garden. But they shan't 
know their women till their women pull off their 
masks ; for a surprise is the most agreeable thing 
in the world : and I find myself in a very good 
humour, ready to do 'em any good turn I can 
think on. 

Bel. Then pray write 'em the necessary billet 
without further delay, 

Lady Brute. Let's go into your chamber, then, 
and whilst you say your prayers, I'll do it, child. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I.—Covent-Garden*. 



Enter Lord Rake, Sir John Brute, Colonel Bully, and 
others, with drawn swords. 

Rake. Is the dog dead ? 

Bully. No, damn him ! I heard him wheeze. 

Rake. How the witch his wife howled ! 

Bully. Ay, she'll alarm the watch presently. 

Rake. Appear, knight, then ; come, you have a 
good cause to fight for, there's a man murdered. 

Sir John. Is there ! then let his ghost be satis- 
fied, for I'll sacrifice a constable to it presently, 
and burn his body upon his wooden chair. 

Enter a Tailor, with a bundle under his arm. 

Bully. How now ! what have we got here ? a 
thief! 

Tailor. No, an't please you, I'm no thief. 

Rake. That we'll see presently.— Here, let the 
general examine him. 

Sir John.. Ay, ay, let me examine him, and I'll 
lay a hundred pound I find him guilty in spite of 
his teeth — for he looks — like a — sneaking rascal. — 
Come, sirrah, without equivocation or mental re- 
servation, tell me of what opinion you are, and 
what calling ; for by them — I shall guess at your 
morals. 

Tail. An't please you, I'm a dissenting jour- 
neyman tailor. 

Sir John. Then, sirrah, you love lying by your 
religion, and theft by your trade ; and so that your 
punishment may be suitable to your crimes — I'll 
have you first gagged — and then hanged. 

Tail. Pray, good worthy gentlemen, don't 
abuse me ; indeed I'm an honest man, and a good 
workman, though I say it that should not say it. 

Sir John. No words, sirrah, but attend your fate. 

Rake. Let me see what's in that bundle. 

Tail. An't please you, it 's the doctor of the 
parish's gown. 

Rake. The doctor's gown !— Hark you, knight, 
you won't stick at abusing the clergy, will you ? 

Sir John. No, I'm drunk, and I'll abuse any- 
thing — but my wife ; and her I name — with reve- 
rence. 

* See page 364. 



Rake. Then you shall wear this gown whilst 
you charge the watch ; that though the blows fall 
upon you, the scandal may light upon the church. 

Sir John. A generous design — by all the gods ! 
— give it me. [Takes the gown, and puts it on. 

Tail. O dear gentlemen, I shall be quite 
undone, if you take the gown. 

Sir John. Retire, sirrah : and since you carry 
off your skin — go home, and be happy. 

Tail [Pausing.] I think I had e'en as good 
follow the gentleman's friendly advice ; for if I 
dispute any longer, who knows but the whim may 
take him to case me ? These courtiers are fuller 
of tricks than they are of money ; they'll sooner 
cut a man's throat than pay his bill. [Exit. 

Sir John. So, how do you like my shapes now ? 

Rake. This will do to a miracle ; he looks like 
a bishop going to the holy war. — But to your arms, 
gentlemen, the enemy appears. 

Enter Constable and Watchmen. 

Watchman. Stand ! Who goes there ? Come 
before the constable. 

Sir John. The constable's a rascal — and you 
are the son of a whore ! 

Watch. A good civil answer for a parson, 
truly ! 

Constable. Methinks, sir, a man of your coat 
might set a better example. 

Sir John. Sirrah, I'll make you know — there 

are men of my coat can set as bad examples — as 

you can do, you dog you ! 

[Sir John strikes the Constable. They knock him down, 

disarm him, and seize him. Lord Rake and the rest 

run away. 

Con. So, we have secured the parson, however. 

Sir John. Blood, and blood — and blood ! 

Watch. Lord have mercy upon us ! how the 
wicked wretch raves of blood. I'll warrant he has 
been murdering somebody to-night. 

Sir John. Sirrah, there's nothing got by murder 
but a halter. My talent lies towards drunkenness 
and simony. 

Watch. Why, that now was spoke like a man 
of parts, neighbours, it's pity he should be so 
disguised, 



362 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



Sir John. You lie ! — I'm not disguised, for I 
am drunk barefaced. 

Watch. Look you there again ! — This is a 
mad parson, Mr. Constable ; I'll lay a pot of ale 
upon's head, he's a good preacher. 

Con. Come, sir, out of respect to your call- 
ing, I shan't put you into the round-house ; 
but we must secure you in our drawing-room till 
morning, that you may do no mischief. So, come 
along. 

Sir John. You may put me where you will, 
sirrah, now you have overcome me. — But if I can't 
do mischief, I'll think of mischief — in spite of your 
teeth, you dog you. {Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Heartfree's Lodgings. 

Enter Heartfree. 

Heart. What the plague ails me ? — Love ? No, 
I thank you for that, my heart's rock still. — Yet 
'tis Belinda that disturbs me ; that's positive. — 
Well, what of all that ? Must I love her for being 
troublesome ? at that rate I might love all the 
women I meet, egad. But hold ! — though I don't 
love her for disturbing me, yet she may disturb 
me because I love her. — Ay, that may be, faith. I 
have dreamed of her, that's certain.— Well, so I 
have of my mother ; therefore, what's that to the 
purpose ? Ay, but Belinda runs in my mind 
waking. — And so does many a damned thing that 
I don't care a farthing for. — Methinks, though, I 
would fain be talking to her, and yet I have no 
business. — Well, am I the first man that has had 
a mind to do an impertinent thing ? 

Enter Constant. 

Const. How now, Heartfree ! what makes you 
up and dressed so soon ? I thought none but 
lovers quarreled with their beds ; I expected to 
have found you snoring, as I used to do. 

Heart. Why, faith, friend, 'tis the care I have of 
your affairs that makes me so thoughtful ; I have 
been studying all night how to bring your matter 
about with Belinda. 

Const. With Belinda! 

Heart. With my lady, I mean : — and faith I 
have mighty hopes on't. Sure you must be very 
well satisfied with her behaviour to you yesterday ? 

Const. So well, that nothing but a lover's fears 
can make me doubt of success. But what can this 
sudden change proceed from ? 

Heart. Why, you saw her husband beat her, 
did you not ? 

Const. That's true : a husband is scarce to be 
borne upon any terms, much less when he fights 
with his wife. Methinks she should e'en have 
cuckolded him upon the very spot, to show that 
after the battle she was master of the field. 

Heart. A council of war of women would infal- 
libly have advised her to't. But, I confess, so 
agreeable a woman as Belinda deserves a better usage. 

Const. Belinda again ! 

Heart,. My lady, I mean. — What a pox makes me 
blunder so to-day? — {Aside.'] A plague of this 
treacherous tongue ! 

Const. Prithee look upon me seriously, Heart- 
free. — Now answer me directly. Is it my lady or 
Belinda employs your careful thoughts thus ? 



Heart. My lady, or Belinda ! 

Const. In love ! by this light, in love ! 

Heart. In love ! 

Const. Nay, ne'er deny it ; for thou'lt do it so 
awkwardly, 'twill but make the jest sit heavier 
about thee. My dear friend, I give thee much joy. 

Heart. Why, prithee, you won't persuade me to 
it, will you ? 

Const. That she's mistress of your tongue, that's 
plain ; and I know you are so honest a fellow, your 
tongue and heart always go together. But how — 
but how the devil, — pha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — 

Heart. Heyday ! why sure you don't believe it 
in earnest ? 

Const. Yes I do, because I see you deny it in jest. 

Heart. Nay, but look you, Ned — a — deny in jest 
— a — gadzooks, you know I say — a — when a man 
denies a thing in jest — a — 

Const. Pha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Heart. Nay, then we shall have it. What, 
because a man stumbles at a word ! Did you never 
make a blunder ? 

Const. Yes, for I am in love, I own it. 

Heart. Then so am I. Now laugh till thy soul's 
glutted with mirth — [Embracing him.'] But, dear 
Constant, don't tell the town on't. 

Const. Nay then, 'twere almost pity to laugh 
at thee, after so honest a confession. But tell us 
a little, Jack, by what new-invented arms has this 
mighty stroke been given ? 

Heart. E'en by that unaccountable weapon, 
called Je-ne-sais-quoi : for everything that can come 
within the verge of beauty I have seen it with 
indifference. 

Const. So in few words then ; the Je-ne-sais-quoi 
has been too hard for the quilted petticoat. 

Heart. Egad, I think the Je-ne-sais-quoi is in 
the quilted petticoat ; at least 'tis certain I ne'er 
think on't without — a — a Je-ne-sais-quoi in every 
part about me. 

Const. Well, but have all your remedies lost 
their virtue ? have you turned her inside out yet ? 

Heart. I dare not so much as think on't. 

Const. But don't the two years' fatigue I have 
had discourage you ? 

Heart. Yes : I dread what I foresee, yet cannot 
quit the enterprise. Like some soldiers, whose 
courage dwells more in their honour than their 
nature. On they go, though the body trembles at 
what the soul makes it undertake. 

Const. Nay, if you expect your mistress will use 
you, as your profanations against her sex deserve, 
you tremble justly. But how do you intend to 
proceed, friend ? 

Heart. Thou knowest I'm but a novice ; be 
friendly and advise me. 

Const. Why, look you, then ; I'd have you — 
serenade and a — write a song — go to church — look 
like a fool — be very officious — ogle — write — and 
lead out : and who knows, but in a year or two's 
time, you may be — called a troublesome puppy, 
and sent about your business ? 

Heart. That's hard. 

Const. Yet thus it oft falls out with lovers, sir. 

Heart. Pox on me for making one of the number. 

Const. Have a care : say no saucy things ; 'twill 
but augment your crime ; and if your mistress hears 
on't, increase your punishment. 

Heart. Prithee, say something then to encourage 
me: you know I helped you in your distress. 



SCENE III. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



353 



Const. Why, then, to encourage you to perse- 
verance, though you may be throughly ill used for 
your offences ; I'll put you in mind, that even the 
coyest ladies of 'em all are made up of desires, as 
well as we ; and though they do hold out a long 
time, they will capitulate at last. For that thun- 
dering engineer, Nature, does make such havoc in 
the town, they must surrender at long-run, or 
perish in their own flames. 

Enter a Footman. 

Foot. Sir, there's a porter without with a letter ; 
he desires to give it into your own hands. 
' Const. Call him in. [Exit Footman. 

Enter Joe. 

Const. What, Joe ! is it thee ? 

Joe. An't please you, sir, I was ordered to deli- 
ver this into your own hands, by two well-shaped 
ladies, at the New Exchange. I was at your 
honour's lodgings, and your servants sent me 
hither. 

Const. 'Tis well. Are you to carry any answer ? 

Joe. No, my noble master. They gave me my 
orders, and whip, they were gone, like a maiden- 
head at fifteen. 

Const. Very well ; there. [Gives him money. 

Joe. God bless your honour. [Exit. 

Const. Now let's see what honest trusty Joe has 
brought us. — [Reads.] If you and your play- 
fellow can spare time from your business arid 
devotions, don't fail to be at Spring-Garden about 
eight in the evening. You'll find nothing there 
but women, so you need bring no other arms than 
what you usually carry about you. — So, play- 
fellow : here's something to stay your stomach till 
your mistress's dish is ready for you. 

Heart. Some of our old battered acquaintance. 
I won't go, not I. 

Const. Nay, that you can't avoid : there's honour 
in the case ; 'tis a challenge, and I want a second. 

Heart. I doubt I shall be but a very useless one 
to you ; for I'm so disheartened by this wound 
Belinda has given me, I don't think I shall have 
courage enough to draw my sword. 

Const. Oh, if that be all, come along ; I'll war- 
rant you find sword enough for such enemies as we 
have to deal withal. 



SCENE III *.— The Street before the Justice's 
House. 

Enter Constable and Watchmen, with Sir John Brute. 

Con. Come along, sir ; I thought to have let you 
slip this morning, because you were a minister : 
but you are as drunk and abusive as ever. We'll 
see what the justice of the peace will say to you. 

Sir John. And you shall see what I'll say to the 
justice of the peace, sirrah. [They knock at the door. 

Enter Servant. 

Con. Pray acquaint his worship we have got an 
unruly parson here. We are unwilling to expose 
him, but don't know what to do with him. 

Serv. I'll acquaint my master. [Exit, 



* See page 364. 



-constable — what damned jus- 
1 warrant 



Sir John. You- 
tice is this ? 

Con. One that will take care of you, 
you. 

Enter Justice. 

Just. Well, Mr. Constable, what's the disorder 
here ? 

Con. An't please your worship — 

Sir John. Let me speak, and be damned ! — I'm 
a divine, and can unfold mysteries better than you 
can do. 

Just. Sadness, sadness! a minister so overtaken! 
Pray, sir, give the constable leave to speak, and I'll 
hear you very patiently ; I assure you, sir, I will. 

Sir John. Sir — you are a very civil magistrate : 
your most humble servant. 

Con. An't please your worship then, he has 
attempted to beat the watch to-night, and swore — 

Sir John. You lie ! 

Just. Hold, pray sir, a little. 

Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. 

Con. Indeed, sir, he came at us without any pro- 
vocation, called us whores and rogues, and laid us 
on with a great quarter-staff. He was in my lord 
Rake's company : they have been playing the devil 
to-night. 

Just. Hem — hem — pray, sir — may you be chap- 
lain to my lord ? 

Sir John. Sir — I presume— I may if I will. 

Just. My meaning, sir, is — are you so ? 

Sir John. Sir — you mean very well. 

Just. He — hem — hem — under favour, sir, pray 
answer me directly. 

Sir John. Under favour, sir — do you use to 
answer directly when you are drunk ? 

Just. Good lack, good lack ! here's nothing to be 
got from him. — Pray, sir, may I crave your name ? 

Sir John. Sir — my name 's — [He hiccups.] — 
Hiccup, sir. 

Just. Hiccup ! Doctor Hiccup ! I have known a 
great many country parsons of that name, especially 
down in the Pens. — Pray where do you live, sir ? 

Sir John. Here and there, sir. 

Just. Why, what a strange man is this ! — Where 
do you preach, sir ? have you any cure ? 

Sir John. Sir — I have — a very good cure — for 
a clap, at your service. 

Just. Lord have mercy upon us ! 

Sir John. [Aside.] This fellow does ask so many 
impertinent questions, I believe, egad, 'tis the jus- 
tice's wife in the justice's clothes. 

Just. Mr. Constable, I vow and protest I don't 
know what to do with him. 

Con. Truly he has been but a troublesome guest 
to us all night. 

Just. I think I had e'en best let him go about 
his business, for I'm unwilling to expose him. 

Con. E'en what your worship thinks fit. 

Sir John. Sir — not to interrupt Mr. Constable, 
I have a small favour to ask. 

Just. Sir, I open both my ears to you. 

Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. I 
have a little urgent business calls upon me ; and 
therefore I desire the favour of you to bring matters 
to a conclusion. 

Just. Sir, if I were sure that business were not 
to commit more disorders, I would release you. 

Sir John. None — by my priesthood. 

Just. Then, Mr. Constable, you may discharge 
him. 

A A 



Qoi 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. If 
you please to accept of a bottle — 

Just. I thank you kindly, sir ; but I never drink 
in a morning. Good bye to ye, sir, good bye to ye. 

Sir John. Good bye t'ye, good sir. — [Exit 
Justice.] So — now, Mr. Constable, shall you and 
I go pick up a whore together ? 

Con. No, thank you, sir ; my wife's enough to 
satisfy any reasonable man. 

Sir John. [Aside.] He ! he ! he ! he ! he ! — 
the fool is married then. — [Aloud.] Well, you 
won't go ? 

Con. Not I, truly. 

Sir John. Then I'll go by myself ; and you and 
your wife may be damned ! {Exit. 

Con. [Gazing after him.] Why, God-a-mercy, 
parson ! {Exeunt. 



SCENE IV.— Spring-Garden. 

Constant and Heartfree cross the stage. As they go off, 
Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle enter masked, and 
dogging them. 

Const. So : I think we are about the time ap- 
pointed. Let us walk up this way. 

{Exit with Heartfree. 

Lady Fan. Good ! Thus far I have dogged 'em 
without being discovered. 'Tis infallibly some 
intrigue that brings them to Spring-Garden. How 
my poor heart is torn and racked with fear and 
jealousy ! Yet let it be anything but that flirt 
Belinda, and I'll try to bear it. But if it prove 
her, all that's woman in me shall be employed to 
destroy her. 

{Exit with Mademoiselle. 

Re-enter Constant and Heartfree. Lady Fancyful 
and Mademoiselle still following at a distance. 

Const. I see no females yet that have anything 
to say to us. I'm afraid we are bantered. 

Heart. I wish we were ; for I'm in no humour 
to make either them or myself merry. 

Const. Nay, I'm sure you'll make them merry 
enough if I tell 'em why you are dull. But prithee, 
why so heavy and sad before you begin to be ill 
used ? 

Heart. For the same reason, perhaps, that you 
are so brisk and well pleased ; because both pains 
and pleasures are generally more considerable in 
prospect than when they come to pass. 

Enter Lady Brute and Belinda, masked, and poorly 
dressed. 

Const. How now, who are these ? Not our 
game, I hope. 

Heart. If they are, we are e'en well enough 
served to come a hunting here, when we had so 
much better game in chase elsewhere. 

Lady Fan. [To Mademoiselle.] So, those 
are their ladies without doubt. But I'm afraid 
that doily stuff is not worn for want of better 
clothes. They are the very shape and size of Be- 
linda and her aunt. 

Mad. So day be inteed, matam. 

Lady Fan. We'll slip into this close arbour, 
where we may hear all they say. 

{Exeunt Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 

Lady Brute. What, are you afraid of us, gentle- 
men ? 



Heart. Why truly, I think we may, if appear- 
ance don't lie. 

Bel. Do you always find women what they ap- 
pear to be, sir ? 

Heart. No, forsooth ; but I seldom find 'em 
better than they appear to be. 

Bel. Then the outside's best, you think ? 

Heart. 'Tis the honestest. 

Const. Have a care, Heartfree ; you are relapsing 



Lady Brute. Why, does the gentleman use to 
rail at women ? 

Const. He has done formerly. 

Bel. I suppose he had very good cause for't. — 
They did not use you so well as you thought you 
deserved, sir. 

Lady Brute. They made themselves merry at 
your expense, sir. 

Bel. Laughed when you sighed. 

Lady Brute. Slept while you were waking. 

Bel. Had your porter beat. 

Lady Brute. And threw your billets-doux in the 
fire. 

Heart. Heyday ! I shall do more than rail pre- 
sently. 

Bel. Why, you won't beat us, will you ? 

Heart. I don't know but I may. 

Const. What the devil's coming here ? Sir John 
in a gown ? — and drunk i'faith. 

Enter Sir John Brute. 

Sir John. What, a pox! — here's Constant, 
Heartfree — and two whores egad ! — O you covetous 
rogues ! what, have you never a spare punk for 
your friend ? — But I'll share with you. 

{He seizes both the ladies. 

Heart. Why, what the plague have you been 
doing, knight ? 

Sir John. Why, I have been beating the watch, 
and scandalising the clergy. 

Heart. A very good account, truly ! 

Sir John. And what do you think I'll do next ? 

Const. Nay, that no man can guess. 

Sir John. Why, if you'll let me sup with you, 
I'll treat both your strumpets. 

Lady Brute. [Aside] O Lord, we are undone ! 

Heart. No, we can't sup together, because we 
have some affairs elsewhere. But if you'll accept 
of these two ladies, we'll be so complaisant to 
you, to resign our right in 'em. 

Bel. [Aside,] Lord, what shall we do? 

Sir John. Let me see, their clothes are such 
damned clothes, they won't pawn for the reckoning. 

Heart. Sir John, your servant. Rapture attend 
you. 

Const. Adieu, ladies ! make much of the gen- 
tleman. 

Lady Brute. Why, sure you won't leave us in 
the hands of a drunken fellow to abuse us ! 

Sir John. Who do you call a drunken fellow, 
you slut you ? I'm a man of quality ; the king has 
made me a knight. 

Heart. Ay, ay, you are in good hands. Adieu 
adieu ! {Runs off. 

Lady Brute. The devil's hands ! — Let me go, 
or I'll — For Heaven's sake protect us ! 

{She breaks from him, runs to Constant, twitching off 
her mask, and clapping it on again. 

Sir John. I'll devil you, you jade you ! I'll 
demolish your ugly face ! 



SCENE IV. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



355 



Const. Hold a little, knight, she swoons. 
Sir John I'll swoon her ! 
Const. Hey, Heartfree ! 

Re-enter Heartfree. Belinda runs to him, and shows 
her face. 

Heart. O Heavens ! My dear creature, stand 
there a little. 

Const. [Aside to Heartfree.] Pull him off, 
I Jack. 

Heart. Hold, mighty man ; look you, sir, we 
did but jest with you. These are ladies of our 
acquaintance, that we had a mind to frighten a 
little, but now you must leave us. 

Sir John. Oons, I won't leave you, not I ! 

Heart. Nay, but you must though ; and there- 
fore make no words on't. 

Sir John. Then you are a couple of damned 
uncivil fellows : and I hope your punks will give 
you sauce to your mutton ! [Exit. 

Lady Brute. Oh, I shall never come to myself 
again, I'm so frightened. 

Const. 'Twas a narrow 'scape indeed. 

Bel. Women must needs have frolics, you see, 
whatever they cost 'em. 

Heart. This might have proved a dear one 
though. 

Lady Brute. You are the more obliged to us, 
for the risk we run upon your accounts. 

Const. And I hope you'll acknowledge some- 
thing due to our knight-errantry, ladies. This is 
a second time we have delivered you. 

Lady Brute. 'Tis true ; and since we see fate 
has designed you for our guardians, 'twill make us 
the more willing to trust ourselves in your hands. 
But you must not have the worse opinion of us 
for our innocent frolic. 

Heart. Ladies, you may command our opinions 
in everything that is to your advantage. 

Bel. Then, sir, I command you to be of opinion, 
that women are sometimes better than they appear 
to be. [Lady Brute and Constant talk apart. 

Heart. Madam, you have made a convert of 
me in every tbing. I'm grown a fool : I could 
be fond of a woman. 

Bel. I thank you, sir, in the name of the whole 
sex. 

Heart. Which sex nothing but yourself could 
ever have atoned for. 

Bel. Now has my vanity a devilish itch to know 
in what my merit consists. 

Heart. In your humility, madam, that keeps 
you ignorant it consists at all. 

Bel. One other compliment with that serious 
face, and I hate you for ever after. 

Heart. Some women love to be abused : is that 
it you would be at ? 

Bel. No, not that neither ; but I'd have men 
talk plainly what's fit for women to hear ; without 
putting 'em either to a real or an affected blush. 

Heart. Why then, in as plain terms as I can 
find to express myself, I could love you even to — 
matrimony itself, a-most, egad. 

Bel. Just as sir John did her ladyship there. 
What think you ? Don't you berieve one month's 
time might bring you down to the same indiffer- 
ence, only clad in a little better manners, perhaps ? 
Well, you men are unaccountable things, mad till 
you have your mistresses, and then stark mad till 
you are rid of 'em again. Tell me, honestly, is 



not your patience put to a much severer trial after 
possession than before ? 

Heart. With a great many, I must confess, it is, 
to our eternal scandal ; but I — dear creature, do 
but try me. 

Bel. That's the surest way, indeed, to know, 
but not the safest. — [To Lady Brute.] Madam, 
are not you for taking a turn in the Great Walk ? 
It's almost dark, nobody will know us. 

Lady Brute. Really I find myself something 
idle, Belinda ; besides I dote upon this little odd 
private corner. But don't let my lazy fancy con- 
fine you. 

Const. [Aside.] So, she would be left alone 
with me ; that's well. 

Bel. Well, we'll take our turn, and come to you 
again. — [To Heartfree.] Come, sir, shall we 
go pry into the secrets of the garden ? Who knows 
what discoveries we may make ? 

Heart. Madam, I'm at your service. 

Co?ist. [Aside to Heartfree.] Don't make too 
much haste back ; for, d'ye hear — I may be busy. 

Heart. Enough. [Exit with Belinda. 

Lady Brute. Sure you think me scandalously 
free, Mr. Constant. I'm afraid I shall lose your 
good opinion of me. 

Const. My good opinion, madam, is like your 
cruelty, never to be removed. 

Lady Brute. But if I should remove my cruelty, 
then there's an end of your good opinion. 

Const. There is not so strict an alliance between 
'em neither. 'Tis certain I should love you then 
better (if that be possible) than I do now ; and 
where I love I always esteem. 

Lady Brute. Indeed, I doubt you much. Why, 
suppose you had a wife, and she should entertain 
a gallant ? 

Const. If I gave her just cause, how could I 
justly condemn her ? 

Lady Brute. Ah, but you'd differ widely about 
just causes. 

Const. But blows can bear no dispute. 

Lady Brute. Nor ill manners much, truly. 

Const. Then no woman upon earth has so just a 
cause as you have. 

Lady Brute. Oh, but a faithful wife is a beauti- 
ful character. 

Const. To a deserving husband I confess it is. 

Lady Brute. But can his faults release my 
duty ? 

Const. In equity, without doubt. And where 
laws dispense with equity, equity should dispense 
with laws. 

Lady Brute. Pray let's leave this dispute ; for 
you men* have as much witchcraft in your argu- 
ments as women have in their eyes. 

Const. But whilst you attack me with your 
charms, 'tis but reasonable I assault you with mine. 

Lady Brute. The case is not the same. What 
mischief we do we can't help, and therefore are to 
be forgiven. 

Const. Beauty soon obtains pardon for the 
pain that it gives, when it applies the balm of 
compassion to the wound : but a fine face and a 
hard heart is almost as bad as an ugly face and a 
soft one ; both very troublesome to many a poor 
gentleman. 

Lady Brute. Yes, and to many a poor gentle 
woman too, I can assure you. But pray, which of 
'em is it that most afflicts you ? 
AA 2 



356 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



Const. Your glass and conscience will inform 
you, madam. But for Heaven's sake ! (for now I 
must be serious) if pity or if gratitude can move 
you : — [Taking her hand] if constancy and truth 
have power to tempt you : if love, if adoration can 
affect you, give me at least some hopes that time 
may do what you perhaps mean never to perform ; 
'twill ease my sufferings, though not quench my 
flame. 

Lady Brute. Your sufferings eased, your flame 
would soon abate : and that I would preserve, not 
quench it, sir. 

Const. Would you preserve it, nourish it with 
favours ; for that's the food it naturally requires. 

Lady Brute. Yet on that natural food 'twould 
surfeit soon, should I resolve to grant all you 
would ask. 

Const. And in refusing all you starve it. For- 
give me, therefore, since my hunger rages, if I at 
last grow wild, and in my frenzy force at least this 
from you. — [Kissing her hand.] Or if you'd have 
my flame soar higher still, then grant me this, and 
this, and this — [Kissing first her hand, then her 
neck'], — and thousands more. — [Aside.] For now's 
the time, she melts into compassion. 

Lady Brute. [Aside.] Poor coward virtue, how 
it shuns the battle. — [Aloud.] O Heavens I let 
me go. 

Const. Ay, go, ay : where shall we go, my 
charming angel ?— Into this private arbour. — Nay, 
let's lose no time — moments are precious. 

Lady Brute. And lovers wild. Pray let us stop 
here ; at least for this time. 

Const. Tis impossible. He that has power 
over you can have none over himself. 

[As he is forcing her into the arbour, Lady Fancyful 
and Mademoiselle rush out upon them, and 
run over the stage. 

Lady Brute. Ah, I'm lost ! 

Lady Fan. Fi ! fi ! fi ! fi ! fi ! 

Mad. Fi ! fi ! fi ! fi ! fi 1 

[Exit with Lady Fancyful. 



Const. Death and furies ! who are these ? 

Lady Brute. O Heavens ! I'm out of my wits : 
if they knew me, I am ruined. 

Const. Don't be frightened ! ten thousand to 
one they are strangers to you. 

Lady Brute. Whatever they are, I won't stay 
here a moment longer. 

Const. Whither will you go ? 

Lady Brute. Home, as if the devil were in me. 
— Lord ! where's this Belinda now ? 

Re-enter Belinda and Heartfree. 

Oh ! it's well you are come : I'm so frightened, 
my hair stands on end. Let's begone, for Heaven's 
sake ! 

Bel. Lord ! what's the matter l 

Lady Brute. The devil's the matter, we are 
discovered. Here's a couple of women have done 
the most impertinent thing ! — Away ! away ! away ! 
away ! away ! 

[Exit running, the others following. 

Re-enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 

Lady Fan. Well, Mademoiselle, 'tis a prodi- 
gious thing how women can suffer filthy fellows to 
grow so familiar with 'em. 

Mad. Ah, matam, il n'y a rien de si naturel. 

Lady Fan. Fi ! fi ! fi ! But oh my heart ! O 
jealousy ! O torture ! I'm upon the rack. What 
shall I do ? My lover's lost, I ne'er shall see him 
mine. — [Pausing.] But I may be revenged, and 
that's the same thing. Ah, sweet revenge ! Thou 
welcome thought, thou healing balsam to my 
wounded soul, be but propitious on this one occa- 
sion, 111 place my heaven in thee for all my life 
to come. 

To woman how indulgent nature's kind ! 

No blast of fortune long disturbs her mind 

Compliance to her fate supports her still ; 

If love won't make her happy — mischief will. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



■A Room in Lady Fancyful's 
House. 



Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 

Lady Fan. Well, Mademoiselle ; did you dog 
the filthy things ? 

Mad. O que oui, matam. 

Lady Fan. And where are they ? 

Mad. Au logis. 

Lady Fan. What, men and all ? 

Mad. Tous ensemble. 

Lady Fan. O confidence ! what, carry their 
fellows to their own house ? 

Mad. C'est que le mari n'y est pas. 

Lady Fan. No, so I believe, truly. But he shall 
be there, and quickly too, if I can find him out. 
Well, 'tis a prodigious thing, to see when men and 
women get together, how they fortify one another 
in their impudence. But if that drunken fool, her 
husband, be to be found in e'er a tavern in town, 
I'll send him amongst 'em. I'll spoil their sport ! 



Mad. En verite, matam, ce seroit dommage. 

Lady Fan. 'Tis in vain to oppose it, Mademoi- 
selle ; therefore never go about it. For I am the 
steadiest creature in the world — when I have deter- 
mined to do mischief. So, come along. [Exeunt: 



SCENE II.- 



■A Room in Sir John Brute's 
House. 



Enter Constant, Heartfree, Lady Brute, Belinda, and 
Love well. 

Lady Brute. But are you sure you don't mistake, 
Lovewell ? 

Love. Madam, I saw 'em all go into the tavern 
together, and my master was so drunk he could 
scarce stand. [Exit. 

Lady Brute. Then, gentlemen, I believe we may 
venture to let you stay, and play at cards with us 
an hour or two : for they'll scarce part till morning 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



357 



Bel. I think 'tis a pity they should ever part. 

Const. The company that's here, madam. 

Lady Brute. Then, sir, the company that's here 
must remember to part itself in time. 

Const. Madam, we don't intend to forfeit your 
future favours by indiscreet usage of this. The 
moment you give us the signal, we shan't fail to 
make our retreat. 

Lady Brute. Upon those conditions then let us 
sit down to cards. 

Re-enter Lov-ewel-l. 

Love. O Lord, madam ! here's my master just 
staggering in upon you ; he has been quarrelsome 
yonder, and they have kicked him out of the com- 
pany. 

Lady Brute. Into the closet, gentlemen, for 

Heaven's sake ! I'll wheedle him to bed, if possible. 

[Constant and Heartfree run into the closet. 

Enter Sir John Brute, all dirt and bloody. 

Lady Brute. Ah — ah — he's all over blood ! 

Sir John. What the plague does the woman — 
squall for ? Did you never see a man in pickle 
before ? 

Lady Brute. Lord, where have you been ? 

Sir John. I have been at — cuffs. 

Lady Brute. I fear that is not all. I hope you 
are not wounded. 

Sir John. Sound as a roach, wife. 

Lady Brute. I'm mighty glad to hear it. 

Sir John. You know — I think you lie. 

Lady Brute. I know you do me wrong to think 
so. For Heaven's my witness I had rather see my 
own blood trickle down than yours. 

Sir John. Then will I be crucified. 

Lady Brute. 'Tis a hard fate I should not be 
believed. 

Sir John. 'Tis a damned atheistical age, wife. 

Lady Brute. I am sure I have given you a thou- 
sand tender proofs how great my care is of you. 
Nay, spite of all your cruel thoughts, I'll still per- 
sist, and at this moment, if I can, persuade you to 
lie down, and sleep a little. 

Sir John. Why — do you think I am drunk — 
you slut, you ? 

Lady Brute. Heaven forbid I should : but I'm 
afraid you are feverish. Pray let me feel your 
pulse. 

Sir John. Stand off, and be damned ! 

Lady Brute. Why, I see your distemper in your 
very eyes. You are all on fire. Pray go to bed ; 
let me entreat you. 

Sir John. Come kiss me, then. 

Lady Brute. [Kissing him.} There: now go.— 
[J side.] He stinks like poison. 

Sir John. I see it goes damnably against your 
stomach — and therefore — kiss me again. 

Lady Brute. Nay, now you fool me. 

Sir John. Do't, I say. 

Lady Brute. [Aside.] Ah, Lord have mercy 
upon me ! — [Kisses him.] Well ; there : now will 
you go ? 

Sir John. Now, wife, you shall see my grati- 
tude. You give me two kisses — I'll give you — 
two hundred . [Kisses and tumbles her. 

Lady Brute. O Lord ! Pray sir John be quiet. 
Heavens, what a pickle am I in ! 

Bel. [Aside.] If I were in her pickle, I'd call 
my gallant out of the closet, and he should cudgel 
him soundly. 



Sir John. So, now you being as dirty and as 
nasty as myself, we may go pig together. But first 
I must have a cup of your cold-tea, wife. 

[Going to the closet. 

Lady Brute. [Aside.] Oh, I'm ruined! — 
[Aloud.] There's none there, my dear. 

Sir John. I'll warrant you I'll find some, my 
dear. 

Lady Brute* You can't open the door, the lock's 
spoiled ; I have been turning and turning the key 
this half-hour to no purpose. I'll send for the 
smith to-morrow. 

Sir John. There's ne'er a smith in Europe can 
open a door with more expedition than I can do.— 
As for example ! — Pou. — [He bursts open the door 
with his foot.] How now ! What the devil have 
we got here ? — Constant ! — Heartfree ! — and two 
whores again, egad ! — This is the worst cold-tea — 
that ever I met with in my life. — 

Re-enter Constant and Heartfree. 

Lady Brute. [Aside.] O Lord what will become 
of us ? 

Sir John. Gentlemen — I am your very humble 
servant — I give you many thanks — I see you take 
care of my family — I shall do all I can to return 
the obligation. 

Const. Sir, how oddly soever this business may 
appear to you, you would have no cause to be 
uneasy if you knew the truth of all things ; your 
lady is the most virtuous woman in the world, and 
nothing has passed but an innocent frolic. 

Heart. Nothing else, upon my honour, sir. 

Sir John. You are both very civil gentlemen — 
and my wife, there, is a very civil gentlewoman ; 
therefore I don't doubt but many civil things have 
passed between you. Your very humble servant ! 

Lady Brute. [Aside to Constant.] Pray be 
gone : he's so drunk he can't hurt us to-night, and 
to-morrow morning you shall hear from us. 

Const. [Aside to Lady Brute.] I'll obey you, 
madam. — [Aloud.] Sir, when you are cool, you'll 
understand reason better. So then I shall take 
the pains to inform you. If not — I wear a sword, 
sir, and so good-bye to you ! — Come along, Heart- 
free. [Exeunt Constant and Heartfree. 

Sir John. Wear a sword, sir ! — And what of ail 
that, sir ? — He comes to my house ; eats my meat ; 
lies with my wife ; dishonours my family ; gets a 
bastard to inherit my estate — and when I ask a 
civil account of all this — Sir, says he, I wear a 
sword. — Wear a sword, sir ! Yes, sir, says he, I 
wear a sword. — It may be a good answer at cross- 
purposes ; but 'tis a damned one to a man in my 
whimsical circumstances — Sir, says he, I wear a 
sword! — [To Lady Brute.] And what do you 
wear now ? ha ! tell me. — [Sitting down in a 
great-chair.] What ! you are modest, and can't. — 
Why then I'll tell you, you slut you ! You wear — 
an impudent lewd face — a damned designing heart 
— and a tail — and a tail full of — 

[He falls fast asleep snoring. 

Lady Brute. So ; thanks to kind Heaven, he's 
fast for some hours. 

Bel. 'Tis well he is so, that we may have time to 
lay our story handsomely ; for we must lie like the 
devil to bring ourselves off. 

Lady Brute. What shall we say, Belinda ? 

Bel. [Musing.] I'll tell you : it must all light 
upon Heartfree and I. We'll say he has courted 



858 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



me some time, but for reasons unknown to us has 
ever been very earnest the thing might be kept 
from sir John. That therefore hearing him upon 
the stairs he run into the closet, though against our 
will, and Constant with him, to prevent jealousy. 
And to give this a good impudent face of truth, 
(that I may deliver you from the trouble you are 
in), I'll e'en (if he pleases) marry him. 

Lady Brute. I'm beholden to you, cousin ; but 
that would be carrying the jest a little too far for 
your own sake. You know he's a younger brother, 
and has nothing. 

Bel. 'Tis true : but I like him, and have fortune 
enough to keep above extremity. I can't say I 
would live with him in a cell, upon love and bread 
and butter : but I had rather have the man I love, 
and a middle state of life, than that gentleman in 
the chair there, and twice your ladyship's splen- 
dour. 

Lady Brute. In truth, niece, you are in the right 
on't : for I am very uneasy with my ambition. But 
perhaps, had I married as you'll do, I might have 
been as ill used. 

Bel. Some risk, I do confess, there always is : 
but if a man has the least spark, either of honour 
or good-nature, he can never use a woman ill, that 
loves him, and makes his fortune both. Yet I 
must own to you, some little struggling I still have 
with this teasing ambition of ours. For pride, you 
know, is as natural to a woman, as 'tis to a saint. 
I can't help being fond of this rogue ; and yet it 
goes to my heart to think I must never whisk to 
Hyde-park with above a pair of horses ; have no 
coronet upon my coach, nor a page to carry up my 
train. But above all — that business of place. — 
Well ; taking place is a noble prerogative. 

Lady Brute. Especially after a quarrel. 

Bel. Or of a rival. But pray say no more on't 
for fear I change my mind. For o' my conscience, 
were't not for your affair in the balance, I should 
go near to pick up some odious man of quality yet, 
and only take poor Heartfree for a gallant. 

Lady Brute. Then him you must have, however 
things go ? 

Bel. Yes. 

Lady Brute. Why we may pretend what we 
will, but 'tis a hard matter to live without the man 
we love. 

Bel. Especially when we are married to the man 
we hate. Pray tell me : do the men of the town 
ever believe us virtuous when they see us do so ? 

Lady Brute. Oh, no : nor indeed hardly, let us 
do what we will. They most of 'em think, there 
is no such thing as virtue, considered in the strictest 
notions of it : and therefore when you hear 'em say, 
such a one is a woman of reputation, they only mean 
she's a woman of discretion. For they consider we 
have no more religion than they have, nor so much 
morality ; and between you and I, Belinda, I'm 
afraid the want of inclination seldom protects any 
of us. 

Bel. But what think you of the fear of being 
found out ? 

Lady Brute. I think that never kept any woman 
virtuous long. We are not such cowards neither. 
No : let us once pass fifteen, and we have too good 
an opinion of our own cunning to believe the 
world can penetrate into what we would keep a 
secret. And so in short we cannot reasonably 
blame the men for judging of us by themselves. 



Bel. But sure we are not so wicked as they are 
after all ? 

Lady Brute. We are as wicked, child, but our 
vice lies another way. Men have more courage 
than we, so they commit more bold impudent sins. 
They quarrel, fight, swear, drink, blaspheme, and 
the like ; whereas we, being cowards, only back- 
bite, tell lies, cheat at cards, and so forth. But 
'tis late : let's end our discourse for to-night, and 
out of an excess of charity take a small care of 
that nasty drunken thing there. — Do but look at 
him, Belinda. 

Bel. Ah — 'tis a savoury dish ! 

Lady Brute. As savoury as 'tis I'm cloyed 
with't. Prithee call the buttler to take it away. 

Bel. Call the butler ! — call the scavenger ! — [To 
a Servant within.] Who's there ? Call Rasor ! 
Let him take away his master, scour him clean with 
a little soap and sand, and so put him to bed. 

Lady Brute. Come, Belinda, I'll e'en lie with 
you to-night ; and in the morning we'll send for 
our gentlemen to set this matter even. 

Bel. With all my heart. 

Lady Brute. Good night, my dear ! 

[Making a low curtsy to Sir John. 

Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Exeunt. 

Enter Easor. 

Ras. My lady there's a wag — my master there's 
a cuckold. Marriage is a slippery thing : — women 
have depraved appetites: — my lady's a wag. I have 
heard all ; I have seen all ; I understand all ; and 
I'll tell all ; for my little Frenchwoman loves news 
dearly. This story'll gain her heart, or nothing 
will. — [To his Master.] Come, sir, your head's 
too full of fumes at present to make room for 
your jealousy; but I reckon we shall have rare 
work with you when your pate's empty. Come to 
your kennel, you cuckoldly drunken sot you ! 

[Carries him out upon his back. 



SCENE III. — A Room in Lady Fancyful's 
House. 

Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 

Lady Fan. But why did not you tell me before, 
Mademoiselle, that Rasor and you were fond ? 

Mad. De modesty hinder me, matam. 

Lady Fan. Why, truly, modesty does often 
hinder us from doing things we have an extravagant 
mind to. But does he love you well enough yet 
to do anything you bid him ? Do you think to 
oblige you he would speak scandal ? 

Mad. Matam, to oblige your ladyship, he shall 
speak blasphemy. 

Lady Fan. Why then, Mademoiselle, I'll tell 
you what you shall do. You shall engage him to 
tell his master all that passed at Spring-garden : 
I have a mind he should know what a wife and a 
niece he has got. 

Mad. II le fera, matam. 

Enter a Footman, m;7*o speaks to Mademoiselle apart. 

Foot. Mademoiselle, yonder's Mr. Rasor desires 
to speak with you. 

Mad. Tell him I come presently. — [Exit Foot- 
man. ] Rasor be dare, matam. 



SCENE III. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



359 



Lady Fan. That's fortunate. Well, I'll leave 
you together. And if you find him stubborn, 
Mademoiselle — hark you — don't refuse him a few 
little reasonable liberties, to put him into humour. 

Mad. Laissez-moi faire. [Exit Lady Fancyful. 

Rasor peeps in ; and seeing Lady Fancyful gone, runs to 
Mademoiselle, takes her about the neck, and kisses her. 

Mad. How now, confidence ! 

Ras. How now, modesty ! 

Mad. Who make you so familiar, sirrah ? 

Ras. My impudence, hussy. 

Mad. Stand off, rogue-face. 

Ras. Ah — Mademoiselle — great news at our 
house. 

Mad. Why what be de matter ? 

Mas. The matter ! — why, uptails all's the matter. 

Mad. Tu te moques de moi. 

Ras. Now do you long to know the particulars 
— the time when — the place where — the manner 
how. But I won't tell you a word more. 

Mad. Nay, den dou kill me, Rasor. 

Ras. Come, kiss me, then. 

[Clapping his hands behind him. 

Mad. Nay, pridee tell me. 

Ras. Good bye to ye ! [Going. 

Mad. Hold, hold ! I will kiss dee. [Kissing him. 

Ras. So, that's civil. Why now, my pretty 
pall ; my goldfinch ; my little waterwagtail — you 
must know that — Come, kiss me again. 

Mad. I won't kiss dee no more. 

Ras. Good b'wy to ye ! 

Mad. Doucement. Dare : es tu content ? 

[Kissing him. 

Ras. So : now I'll tell thee all. Why the 
news is, that Cuckoldom in folio, is newly printed ; 
and Matrimony in quarto is just going into the 
press. Will you buy any books, Mademoiselle ? 

Mad. Tu paries comme un libraire, de devil no 
understand dee. 

Ras. Why then, that I may make myself intel- 
ligible to a waiting-woman, I'll speak like a valet- 
de-chambre. My lady has cuckolded my master. 

Mad. Bon ! 

Ras. Which we take very ill from her hands, 
I can tell her that. We can't yet prove matter of 
fact upon her. 

Mad. N'importe. 

Ras. But we can prove that matter of fact had 
like to have been upon her. 

Mad. Oui da ! 

Ras. For we have such bloody circumstances. 

Mad. Sans doute. 

Ras. That any man of parts may draw tickling 
conclusions from 'em. 

Mad. Fort bien. 

Ras. We have found a couple of tight well-built 
gerftlemen stuffed into her ladyship's closet. 

Mad. Le diable ! 

Ras. And I, in my particular person, have 
discovered a most damnable plot, how to persuade 
my poor master, that all this hide and seek, this 
will-in-the-wisp, has no other meaning than a 
Christian marriage for sweet Mrs. Belinda. 

Mad. Un mariage ! — Ah les drolesses ! 

Ras. Don't you interrupt me, hussy. 'Tis 
agreed, I say, and my innocent lady, to wriggle 
herself out at the back-door of the business, turns 
marriage-bawd to her niece, and resolves to deliver 
up her fair body, to be tumbled and mumbled, bv 



that young liquorish whipster Heartfree. Now 
are you satisfied ? 

Mad. No. 

Ras. Right woman ; always gaping for more. 

Mad. Dis be all den dat dou know ? 

Ras. All ! ay, and a great deal too, I think. 

Mad. Dou be fool, dou know noting. Ecoute, 
mon pauvre Rasor. Dou see des two eyes ? — 
Des two eyes have see de devil. 

Ras. The woman's mad ! 

Mad. In Spring-garden, dat rogue Constant 
meet dy lady. 

Ras. Bon ! 

Mad. I'll tell dee no more. 

Ras. Nay, prithee, my swan. 

Mad. Come, kiss me den. 
[Clapping her hands behind her as he had done before. 

Ras. I won't kiss you, not I. 

Mad. Adieu ! 

Ras. Hold ! — [Gives her a hearty kiss.] Now 
proceed. 

Mad. Ah, ca ! — I hide myself in one cunning 
place, where I hear all, and see all. First dy drunken 
master come mal a-propos ; but de sot no know his 
own dear wife, so he leave her to her sport. — Den 
de game begin. De lover say soft ting : de lady 
look upon de ground. — [As she speaks, Rasor 
still acts the man, and she the woman.'] He take 
her by de hand : she turn her head on oder way. 
Den he squeeze very hard : den she pull — very 
softly. Den he take her in his arm : den she give 
him leetel pat. Den he kiss her tetons : den she 
say — Pish ! nay, fi ! Den he tremble : den she — 
sigh. Den he pull her into de arbour : den she 
pinch him. 

Ras. Ay, but not so hard, you baggage you ! 

Mad. Den he grow bold : she grow weak. He 
tro her down, il tombe dessus, le diable assiste, il 
emporte tout. — [Rasor. struggles with her, as if he 
would throw her down.'] Stand off, sirrah. 

Ras. You have set me a fire, you jade you ! 

Mad. Den go to de river and quench dyself. 

Ras. What an unnatural harlot 'tis ! 

Mad. Rasor ! [Looking languishing on him. 

Ras. Mademoiselle ! 

Mad. Dou no love me ? 

Ras. Not love thee ! — more than a Frenchman 
does soup. 

Mad. Den dou will refuse noting dat I bid dee ? 

Ras. Don't bid me be damned then. 

Mad. No, only tell dy master all I have tell dee 
of dy laty. 

Ras. Why, you little malicious strumpet, you ; 
should you like to be served so ? 

Mad. You dispute den ? — Adieu ! 

Ras. Hold ! — But why wilt thou make me be 
such a rogue, my dear ? 

Mad. Voila, un vrai Anglais ! il est amoureux, 
et cependant il veut raisonner. Va-t'en au diable ! 

Ras. Hold once more ! In hopes thou'lt give me 
up thy body, I resign thee up my soul. 

Mad. Bon ! ecoute done — If dou fail me — I 
never see dee more. — If dou obey me — je m'aban- 
donne a, toi. 

[Takes him about the neck and gives Mm a smacking 
kiss, and exit. 

Ras. [Licking his lips.'] Not be a rogue ? — 
Amor vincit omnia ! [Exit. 



360 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



ACT V. 



SCENE IV. — Another Room in the same. 
Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 

Lady Fan. Marry, say ye ? will the two things 
marry ? 

Mad. On le va faire, matam. 

Lady Fan. Look you, Mademoiselle, in short, 
I can't bear it. — No ; I find I can't. — If once I 
see 'em a-bed together, I shall have ten thousand 
thoughts in my head will make me run distracted. 
Therefore run and call Rasor back immediately, 
for something must be done to stop this impertinent 
wedding. If I can defer it but four-and-twenty 
hours, I'll make such work about town, with that 
little pert slut's reputation, he shall as soon marry 
a witch. 

Mad. [Aside.} La voila bien intentionnee. 

[Exeunt* 



SCENE V. — Constant's Lodgings. 
Enter Constant and Heartfree. 

Const. But what dost think will come of this 
business ? 

Heart. 'Tis easier to think what will not come 
on't. 

Const. What's that ? 

Heart. A challenge. I know the knight too well 
for that : his dear body will always prevail upon 
his noble soul to be quiet. 

Const. But though he dare not challenge me, 
perhaps he may venture to challenge his wife. 

Heart. Not if you whisper him in the ear, you 
won't have him do't, and there's no other way left 
that I see. For as drunk as he was, he'll remem- 
ber you and I were where we should not be ; and 
I don't think him quite blockhead enough yet to 
be persuaded we were got into his wife's closet 
only to peep in her prayer-book. 

Enter Servant with a letter. 

Serv. Sir, here's a letter ; a porter brought it. 

[Exit. 

Const. O ho ! here's instructions for us. — 
[Reads.! The accident that has happened has 
touched our invention to the quick. We would 
fain come off without your help, but find that's 
impossible. In a word, the whole business must 
be thrown upon a matrimonial intrigue between 
your friend and mine. But if the parties are 
not fond enough to go quite through with the 
matter, 'tis sufficient for our turn they own the 
design. We' 11 find pretences enough to break the 
match. Adieu ! — Well, woman for invention ! 
How long would my blockhead have been a pro- 
ducing this ! — Hey, Heartfree ! What musing, 
man ! prithee be cheerful. What sayest thou, 
friend, to this matrimonial remedy? 

Heart. Why I say it's worse than the disease. 

Const. Here's a fellow for you ! There's beauty 
and money on her side, and love up to the ears on 
his ; and yet— 

Heart. And yet, I think, I may reasonably be 
allowed to boggle at marrying the niece, in the very 
moment that you are debauching the aunt. 

Const. Why truly there may be something in 
that. But have not you a good opinion enough of 
your own parts to believe you could keep a wife to 
yourself? 



Heart. I should have, if I had a good opinion 
enough of hers, to believe she could do as much by 
me. For to do 'em right, after all, the wife seldom 
rambles till the husband shows her the way. 

Const. 'Tis true ; a man of real worth scarce 
ever is a cuckold but by his own fault. Women 
are not naturally lewd, there must be something to 
urge 'em to it. They'll cuckold a churl, out of 
revenge ; a fool, because they despise him ; a beast, 
because they loathe him. But when they make 
bold with a man they once had a well-grounded 
value for, 'tis because they first see themselves 
neglected by him. 

Heart. Nay, were I well assured that I should 
never grow sir John, I ne'er should fear Belinda'd 
play my lady. But our weakness, thou knowest, 
my friend, consists in that very change we so im- 
pudently throw upon (indeed) a steadier and more 
generous sex. 

Const. Why, faith, we are a little impudent in 
that matter, that's the truth on't. But this is 
wonderful, to see you grown so warm an advocate 
for those (but t'other day) you took so much pains 
to abuse ! 

Heart. All revolutions run into extremes ; the 
bigot makes the boldest atheist ; and the coyest 
saint, the most extravagant strumpet. But prithee 
advise me in this good and evil, this life and death, 
this blessing and cursing, that is set before me. 
Shall I marry — or die a maid ? 

Const. Why faith, Heartfree, matrimony is like 
an army going to engage. Love's the forlorn hope, 
which is soon cut off ; the marriage-knot is the main 
body, which may stand buff a long long time ; and 
repentance is the rear- guard, which rarely gives 
ground as long as the main battle has a being. 

Heart. Conclusion then ; you advise me to whore 
on as you do ? 

Const. That's not concluded yet. For though 
marriage be a lottery, in which there are a won- 
drous many blanks ; yet there is one inestimable 
lot, in which the only heaven on earth is written. 
Would your kind fate but guide your hand to that, 
though I were wrapped in all that luxury itself 
could clothe me with, I still should envy you. 

Heart. And justly, too : for to be capable of 
loving one, doubtless is , better tnan to possess a 
thousand. But how far that capacity's in me, alas ! 
I know not. 

Const. But you would know ? 

Heart. I would so. 

Const. Matrimony will inform you. Come, one 
flight of resolution carries you to the land of expe- 
rience ; where, in a very moderate time, you'll 
know the capacity of your soul and your body both, 
or I'm mistaken. [Exeunt 



SCENE VI.— A Room in Sir John Brute's 
House. 

Enter Lady Brute and Belinda. 

Bel. Well, madam, what answer have you from 
'em ? 

Lady Brute. That they'll be here this moment. 
I fancy 'twill end in a wedding : I'm sure he's a 
fool if it don't. Ten thousand pound, and such a 
lass as you are, is no contemptible offer to a 
younger brother. But are not you under strange 
agitations ? Prithee how does your pulse beat ? 



SCENE VI. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



361 



Bel. High and low, I have much ado to be 
valiant : sure it must feel very strange to go to bed 
to a man ! 

Lady Brute. Um — it does feel a little odd at 
first, but it will soon grow easy to you. 



Enter Constant and Heartfree. 



How 



Lady Brute. Good-morrow, gentlemen 
have you slept after your adventure ? 

Heart. Some careful thoughts, ladies, on your 
accounts have kept us waking. 

Bel. And some careful thoughts on your own, I 
believe, have hindered you from sleeping. Pray 
how does this matrimonial project relish with you ? 

Heart. Why faith e'en as storming towns does 
with soldiers, where the hopes of delicious plunder 
banishes the fear of being knocked on the head. 

Bel. Is it then possible after all that you dare 
think of downright lawful wedlock ? 

Heart. Madam, you have made me so foolhardy 
I dare do anything. 

Bel. Then, sir, I challenge you ; and matri- 
mony's the spot where I expect you. 

Heart. 'Tis enough ; I'll not fail. — [Aside.] 
So, now, I am in for Hobbes's voyage ; a great 
leap in the dark. 

Lady Brute. Well, gentlemen, this matter being 
concluded then, have you got your lessons ready ? 
For sir John is grown such an atheist of late he'll 
believe nothing upon easy terms. 

Const. We'll find ways to extend his faith, 
madam. But pray how do you find him this 
morning ? 

Lady Brute. Most lamentably morose, chewing 
the cud after last night's discovery ; of which how- 
ever he had but a confused notion e'en now. But 
I'm afraid the valet-de-chambre has told him all, 
for they are very busy together at this moment. 
When I told him of Belinda's marriage, I had no 
other answer but a grunt : from which you may 
draw what conclusions you think fit. — But to your i 
notes, gentlemen, he's here. 

Enter Sir John Brute and Rasor. 

Const. Good-morrow, sir. 

Heart. Good-morrow, sir John. I'm very sorry 
my indiscretion should cause so much disorder in 
your family. 

Sir John. Disorders generally come from indis- 
cretions, sir ; 'tis no strange thing at all. 

Lady Brute. I hope, my dear, you are satisfied 
there was no wrong intended you. 

Sir John. None, my dove. 

Bel. If not, I hope my consent to marry Mr. 
Heartfree will convince you. For as little as I 
know of amours, sir, I can assure you, one intrigue 
is enough to bring four people together, without 
further mischief. 

Sir John. And I know, too, that intrigues tend 
to procreation of more kinds than one. One 
intrigue will beget another as soon as beget a son 
or a daughter. 

Const. I am very sorry, sir, to see you still seem 
unsatisfied with a lady whose more than common 
virtue, I am sure, were she my wife, should meet 
a better usage. 

Sir John. Sir, if her conduct has put a trick 
upon her virtue, her virtue's the bubble, but her 
husband's the loser. 

Const, Sir, you have received a sufficient answer 



already to justify both her conduct and mine. 
You'll pardon me for meddling in your family- 
affairs ; but I perceive I am the man you are jea- 
lous of, and therefore it concerns me. 

Sir John. Would it did not concern me, and 
then I should not care who it concerned. 

Const. Well, sir, if truth and reason won't con- 
tent you, I know but one way more, which, if you 
think fit, you may take. 

Sir John. Lord, sir, you are very hasty. If 1 
had been found at prayers in your wife's closet, I 
should have allowed you twice as much time to 
come to yourself in. 

Const. Nay, sir, if time be all you want, we 
have no quarrel. 

Heart. [Aside to Constant.] I told you how 
the sword would work upon him. [Sir John muses. 

Const. [Aside to Heartfree.] Let him muse ; 
however, I'll lay fifty pound our foreman brings us 
in, Not Guilty. 

Sir John. [Aside.] 'Tis well— 'tis very well. — 
In spite of that young jade's matrimonial intrigue, 
I am a downright stinking cuckold. — Here they 
are— Boo!— [Putting his hand to his forehead.] 
Methinks I could butt with a bull. What the 
plague did I marry her for ? I knew she did not 
like me ; if she had, she would have lain with me ; 
for I would have done so because I liked her : 
but that's past, and I have her. And now, what 
shall I do with her ? — If I put my horns in my 
pocket, she'll grow insolent. — If I don't, that goat 
there, that stallion, is ready to whip me through 
the guts — The debate, then, is reduced to this ; 
shall I die a hero ? or live a rascal ? — Why, wiser 
men than I have long since concluded, that a living 
dog is better than a dead lion. — [Aloud.] Gentle- 
men, now my wine and my passion are governable, 
I must own, I have never observed anything in my 
wife's course of life to back me in my jealousy of 
her : but jealousy's a mark of love ; so she need 
not trouble her head about it, as long as I make 
no more words on't. 

Enter Lady Fancyful disguised ; she addresses Belinda 
apart. 

Const. I'm glad to see your reason rule at last. 
Give me your hand : I hope you'll look upon me 
as you are wont. 

Sir John. Your humble servant. — [Aside.] A 
wheedling son of a whore ! 

Heart. And that I may be sure you are friends 
with me too, pray give me your consent to wed 
your niece. 

Sir John. Sir, you have it with all my heart : 
damn me if you han't ! — [Aside.] 'Tis time to get 
rid of her : — a young pert pimp ! she'll make an 
incomparable bawd in a little time. 

Enter a Servant, who gives Heartfree a letter. 

Bel. Heartfree your husband, say you ? 'tis 
impossible. 

Lady Fan. Would to kind Heaven it were : but 
'tis too true ; and in the world there lives not such 
a wretch. I'm young ; and either I have been 
flattered by my friends, as well as glass, or nature 
has been kind and generous to me. I had a for- 
tune too was greater far than he could ever hope 
for ; but with my heart I am robbed of all the rest. 
I'm slighted and I'm beggared both at once ; I 
have scarce a bare subsistence from the villain, 



362 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



yet dare complain to none ; for he has sworn, if 
e'er 'tis known I am his wife, he'll murder me. 

[Pretends to weep. 

Bel. The traitor ! 

Lady Fan. I accidentally was told he courted 
you ; charity soon prevailed upon me to prevent 
your misery; and as you see, I'm still so generous 
even to him, as not to suffer he should do a thing 
for which the law might take away his life. 

[Pretends to weep. 

Bel. Poor creature ! how I pity her ! 

[They continue talking aside. 

Heart. [Aside.'] Death and damnation ! — Let 

me read it again [Reads.] Though I have a 

particular reason not to let you know who I am 
till I see you ; yet you'll easily believe His a faith- 
ful, friend that gives you this advice — / have lain 
with Belinda. — Good ! — I have a child by her.— 
Better and better ! — which is now at nurse ; — 
Heaven be praised ! — and I think the foundation 
laid for another. — Ha ! — Old Truepenny ! — No 
rack could have tortured this story from me, but 
friendship has done it. I heard of your design to 
marry her, and could not see you abused. Make 
use of my advice, but keep my secret till I ask you 
for't again. Adieu. [Exit Lady Fancyful. 

Const. [To Belinda.] Come, madam, shall we 
send for the parson ? I doubt here's no business 
for the lawyer. Younger brothers have nothing to 
settle but their hearts, and that I believe my friend 
here has already done very faithfully. 

Bel. [Scornfully.] Are you sure, sir, there are 
no old mortgages upon it ? 

Heart. [Coldly.] If you think there are, madam, 
it mayn't be amiss to defer the marriage till you 
are sure they are paid off. 

Bel. [Aside.] How the galled horse kicks ! — 
[ To Heartfree,] We'll defer it as long as you 
please, sir. 

Heart. The more time we take to consider on't, 
madam, the less apt we shall be to commit over- 
sights ; therefore, if you please, we'll put it off for 
just nine months. 

Bel. Guilty consciences make men cowards ; I 
don't wonder you want time to resolve. 

Heart. And they make women desperate ; I 
don't wonder you were so quickly determined. 

Bel. What does the fellow mean ? 

Heart. What does the lady mean ? 

Sir John. Zoons ! what do you both mean ? 

[Heartfree and Belinda toalk chafing about. 

Has. [Aside.] Here's so much sport going to 
be spoiled, it makes me ready to weep again. A 
pox o' this impertinent Lady Fancyful and her plots, 
and her Frenchwoman, too ! she's a whimsical, ill- 
natured bitch ; and when I have got my bones 
broke in her service, 'tis ten to one but my recom- 
pense is a clap ; I hear 'em tittering without still. 
Ecod, I'll e'en go lug 'em both in by the ears, 
and discover the plot, to secure my pardon. [Exit 

Const. Prithee, explain, Hear-tfree. 

Heart. A fair deliverance, thank my stars and 
my friend. 

Bel. 'Tis well it went no farther ; a base fellow ! 

Lady Brute. What can be the meaning of 
all this ? 

Bel. What's his meaning 1 don't know ; but 
mine is, that if T had married him — I had had no 
husband. 

Heart. And what's her meaning I don't know ; 



but mine is, that if I had married her — I had had 
wife enough. 

Sir John. Your people of wit have got such 
cramp ways of expressing themselves, they sel- 
dom comprehend one another. Pox take you 
both ! will you speak that you may be understood ? 
Re-enter Rasor, in sackcloth, pulling in Lady Fancyful 
and Mademoiselle, both masked. 

Ras. If they won't, here comes an interpreter. 

Lady Brute. Heavens ! what have we here ? 

Ras. A villain — but a repenting villain. Stuff 
which saints in all ages have been made of. 

All. Rasor ! 

Lady Brute. What means this sudden meta- 
morphose ? 

Ras. Nothing, without my pardon. 

Lady Brute. What pardon do you want ? 

Ras. Imprimis, your ladyship's ; for a damnable 
lie made upon your spotless virtue, and set to the 
tune of Spring-Garden. — [To Sir John.] Next, at 
my generous master's feet I bend, for interrupting 
his more noble thoughts with phantoms of disgrace- 
ful cuckoldom. — [To Constant.] Thirdly, I to 
this gentleman apply for making him the hero of 
my romance. — [To Heartfree.] Fourthly, your 
pardon, noble sir, I ask, for clandestinely marrying 
you, without either bidding of banns, bishop's 
licence, friends' consent — or your own knowledge. 
[To Belinda.] And lastly, to my good young 
lady's clemency I come, for pretending the corn 
was sowed in the ground, before ever the plough 
had been in the field. 

Sir John. [Aside.] So that after all, 'tis a moot 
point, whether I am a cuckold or not. 

Bel. Well, sir, upon condition you confess all, 
I'll pardon you myself, and try to obtain as much 
from the rest of the company. But I must know 
then who 'tis has put you upon all this mischief ? 

Ras. Satan and his equipage ; woman tempted 
me, lust weakened me — and so the devil overcame 
me ; as fell Adam, so fell I. 

Bel. Then pray, Mr. Adam, will you make us 
acquainted with your Eve ? 

Ras. [ To Mademoiselle.] Unmask, for the 
honour of France. 

All. Mademoiselle ! 

Mad. Me ask ten tousand pardon of all de good 
company. 

Sir John. Why this mystery thickens, instead 
of clearing up. — [To Rasor.] You son of a whore 
you, put us out of our pain. 

Ras. One moment brings sunshine. — [Pointing 
to Mademoiselle.] 'Tis true this is the woman 
that tempted me ; but this is the serpent that 
tempted the woman ; and if my prayers might be 
heard, her punishment for so doing should be like 
the serpent's of old. — [Pulls ojfLadyFANCYFUL's 
mask.] She should lie upon her face all the days of 
her life. 

All. Lady Fancyful ! 

Bel. Impertinent ! 

Lady Brute. Ridiculous ! 

All. Ha ! ha ! ha I ha ! ha ! 

Bel. I hope your ladyship will give me leave to 
wish you joy, since you have owned your mar- 
riage yourself. — [To Heartfree.] I vow 'twas 
strangely wicked in you to think of another wife, 
when you had one already so charming as her 
ladyship. 

All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 



SCENE VI. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



363 



Lady Fan. [Aside.] Confusion seize 'em, as it 
seizes me ! 

Mad. [Aside.] CJuele diable etouffe ce maraud 
de Rasor ! 

Bel. Your ladyship seems disordered ; a breed- 
ing qualm, perhaps. — Mr. Heartfree, your bottle 
of Hungary water to your lady. — Why, madam, 
he stands as unconcerned as if he were your hus- 
band in earnest. 

Lady Fan. Your mirth's as nauseous as your- 
self, Belinda. You think you triumph over a rival 
now : helas ! ma pauvre fille. Where'er I'm rival 
there's no cause for mirth. No, my poor wretch, 
'tis from another principle I have acted. I knew 
that thing there would make so perverse a husband, 
and you so impertinent a wife, that lest your 
mutual plagues should make you both run mad, I 
charitably would have broke the match. He ! he ! 
he ! he ! he ! 

{Exit laughing affectedly, Mademoiselle following her. 

Mad. He ! he ! he 1 he ! he ! 

All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Sir John. [Aside.] Why now this woman will 
be married to somebody too. 

Bel. Poor creature ! what a passion she's in ! 
but I forgive her. 

Heart. Since you have so much goodness for her, 
I hope you will pardon my offence too, madam. 

Bel. There will be no great difficulty in that, 
since I am guilty of an equal fault. 

Heart. Then pardons being passed on all sides, 
pray let's to church to conclude the day's work. 



Const. But before you go, let me treat you, 
pray, with a song a new-married lady made within 
this week ; it may be of use to you both. 

SONG. 

When yielding first to Damon's flame, 

I sunk into his arms ; 
He swore he'd ever be the same, 

Then rifled all my charms. 
But fond of what he had long desired, 

Too greedy of his prey, 
My shepherd's flame, alas ! expired 

Before the verge of day. 

My innocence in lovers' wars, 

Reproach 'd his quick defeat ; 
Confused, ashamed, and bathed in tears, 

I mourn'd his cold retreat. 
At length, Ah shepherdess ! cried he, 

Would you my fire renew, 
Alas ! you must retreat like me, 

I'm lost if you pursue ! 

Heart. So, madam ; now had the parson but 
done his business — 

Bel. You'd be half weary of your bargain. 

Heart. No, sure, I might dispense with one 
night's lodging. 

Bel. I'm ready to try, sir. 

Heart. Then let's to church : 
And if it be our chance to disagree — 

Bel. Take heed— the surly husband's fate you 
see. {Exeunt omnes. 



EPILOGUE 

(by another hand) 
spoken by lady brute and belinda, 



Lady Brute. No Epilogue ! 

Bel. I swear I know of none. 

Lady Brute. Lord ! How shall we excuse it to 

the town ? 
Bel. Why, we must e'en say something of our 

own. 
Lady Brute. Our own ! Ay, that must needs 

be precious stuff. 
Bel. I'll lay my life, they'll like it well enough. 
Come, faith, begin — 

Lady Brute. Excuse me : after you. 

Bel. Nay, pardon me for that, I know my cue. 
Lady Brute. Oh, for the world, I would not have 

precedence. 
Bel. O Lord ! 
Lady Brute. I swear — 
Bel. O fy ! 

Lady Brute. I'm all obedience. 

First, then, know all, before our doom is fix'd, 
The third day is for us — 

Bel. Nay, and the sixth. 



Lady Brute. We speak not from the poet now, 
nor is it 
His cause — (I want a rhyme) 

Bel. That we solicit. 

Lady Brute. Then sure you cannot have the 
hearts to be severe, 
And damn us — ■ 

Bel. Damn us! Let 'em if they dare. 

Lady Brute. Why, if they should, what punish- 
ment remains? 
Bel. Eternal exile from behind our scenes. 
Lady Brute. But if they're kind, that sentence 
we'll recal, 
We can be grateful — 

Bel. And have wherewithal. 

Lady Brute. But at grand treaties hope not to 
be trusted, 
Before preliminaries are adjusted. 

Bel. You know the time, and we appoint this 
place ! 
Where, if you please, we'll meet and sign the peace. 



364 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



Upon the revival of this Play, in 1725, Sir John Vanhrugh thought proper to substitute the two 
follovnng Scenes, in lieu of those printed in pages 351, 353. 

ACT IV. 



SCENE I. — Covent-Garden. 

Enter Lord Rake, Sir John Brute, Colonel Bully, and 

others, with drawn swords. 

Rake. Is the dog dead ? 

Bully. No, damn him ! I heard him wheeze. 

Rake. How the witch his wife howled ! 

Bully. Ay, she'll alarm the watch presently. 

Rake. Appear, knight, then. Come, you have 
a good cause to fight for, there's a man murdered. 

Sir John. Is there ? Then let his ghost be satis- 
fied ; for I'll sacrifice a constable to it presently, 
and burn his body upon his wooden chair. 

Enter a Tailor, with a bundle under his arm. 

Bully. How now ! what have we got here ? a 
thief? 

Tailor. No, an't please you, I'm no thief. 

Rake. That we'll see presently. Here — let the 
general examine him. 

Sir John. Ay, ay, let me examine him, and I'll 
lay a hundred pound I find him guilty in spite of 
his teeth — for he looks — like a — sneaking rascal. 
Come, sirrah, without equivocation or mental re- 
servation, tell me of what opinion you are, and 
what calling ; for by them — I shall guess at your 
morals. 

Tail. An't please you, I'm a dissenting journey- 
man woman's tailor. 

Sir John. Then, sirrah, you love lying by your 
religion, and theft by your trade ; and so that your 
punishment may be suitable to your crimes — I'll 
have you first gagged — and then hanged. 

Tail. Pray, good worthy gentlemen, don't abuse 
me ; indeed I'm an honest man, and a good work- 
man, though I say it that should not say it. 

Sir John. No words, sirrah, but attend your 
fate. 

Rake. Let me see what's in that bundle. 

Tail. An't please you, it's my lady's short 
cloak and sack. 

Sir John. What lady, you reptile, you ? 

Tail. My lady Brute, an't please your honour. 

Sir John. My lady Brute 1 my wife ! the robe 
of my wife ! with reverence let me approach it. 
The dear angel is always taking care of me in 
danger, and has sent me this suit of armour to 
protect me in this day of battle. On they go ! 

All. O brave knight ! 

Rake. Live Don Quixote the second. 

Sir John. Sancho, my squire, help me on with 
my armour. 

Tail. O dear gentlemen ! I shall be quite undone 
if you take the sack. 

Sir John. Retire, sirrah ! and since you carry 
off your skin, go home and be happy. 

Tail. [Aside.} I think I'd e'en as good follow 
the gentleman's advice ; for if I dispute any longer, 



who knows but the whim may take 'em to case 
me. — These courtiers are fuller of tricks than they 
are of money ; they'll sooner break a man's bones 
than pay his bills. [Exit. 

Sir John. So ! how do you like my shapes now ? 

Rake. To a miracle ! he looks like a queen of 
the Amazons. — But to your arms ! Gentlemen ! 
The enemy's upon their march — here's the watch — 

Sir John. 'Oons ! if it were Alexander the 
Great, at the head of his army, I would drive him 
into a horse-pond. 

All. Huzza ! O brave knight ! 

Enter Watchmen. 

Sir John. See ! here he comes, with all his 
Greeks about him. — Follow me, boys. 

Watchman. Heyday ! who have we got here. 
Stand ! 

Sir John. Mayhap not. 

Watch. What are you all doing here in the 
streets at this time o' night ? And who are you , 
madam, that seem to be at the head of this noble 
crew ? 

Sir John. Sirrah, I am Bonduca, queen of 
the Welchmen, and with a leek as long as my 
pedigree, I will destroy your Roman legion in an 
instant.— Britons, strike home ! 

[They fight off. Watchmen return with Sir John. 

Watch. So, we have got the queen, however ! 
We'll make her pay well for her ransom. — Come, 
madam, will your majesty please to walk before the 
constable ? 

Sir John. The constable's a rascal ! and you are 
a son of a whore ! 

Watch. A most noble reply, truly ! If this be 
her royal style, I'll warrant her maids of honour 
prattle prettily. But we'll teach you some of our 
court dialect before we part with you, princess. — 
Away with her to the Round-house. 

Sir John. Hands off, you ruffians ! My honour's 
dearer to me than my life ; I hope you won't be 
uncivil. 

Watch. Away with her ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— The Street before the Justice's 

House. 
Enter Constable and Watchmen, ivith Sir John Brute. 
Constable. Come, forsooth, come along, if you 
please. I once in compassion thought to have 
seen you safe home this morning, but you have 
been so rampant and abusive all night, I shall see 
what the justice of peace will say to you. 

Sir John. And you shall see what I'll say to the 
justice of peace. [Watchman knocks at the dour. 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



365 



Enter Servant. 

Con. Is Mr. Justice at home ? 

Serv. Yes. 

Con. Pray acquaint his worship we have got an 
unruly woman here, and desire to know what he'll 
please to have done with her. 

Serv. I'll acquaint my master. [Exit. 

Sir John. Hark you, constable, what cuckoldly 
justice is this ? 

Con. One that knows how to deal with such 
romps as you are, I'll warrant you. 
Enter Justice. 

Just. Well, Mr. Constable, what is the matter 
there ? 

Con. An't please your worship, this here comical 
sort of a gentlewoman has committed great out- 
rages to-night. She has been frolicking with my 
lord Rake and his gang ; they attacked the watch, 
and I hear there has been a man killed : I believe 
'tis they have done it. 

Sir John. Sir, there may have been murder for 
aught I know ; and 'tis a great mercy there has 
not been a rape too — that fellow would have 
ravished me. 

2 Watch. Ravish ! ravish ! O lud ! O lud ! 
lud! Ravish her! why, please your worship, I 
heard Mr. Constable say he believed she was little 
better than a maphrodrite. 

Just. Why, truly, she does seem a little mascu- 
line about the mouth. 

2 Watch. Yes, and about the hands too, an't 
please your worship. I did but offer in mere 
civility to help her up the steps into our apart- 
ment, and with her gripen fist — ay, just so, sir. 

[Sir John knocks him down. 

Sir John. I felled him to the ground like an ox. 

Just. Out upon this boisterous woman ! Out 
upon her ! 

Sir John. Mr. Justice, he would have been un- 
civil ! It was in defence of my honour, and I 
demand satisfaction. 

2 Watch. I hope your worship will satisfy her 
honour in Bridewell ; that fist of hers will make an 
admirable hemp-beater. 

Sir John. Sir, I hope you will protect me against 
that libidinous rascal ; I am a woman of quality 
and virtue too, for all I am in an undress this 
morning. 

Just. Why, she has really the air of a sort of 
a woman a little something out of the common. — 
Madam, if you expect I should be favourable to 
you, I desire I may know who you are. 

Sir John. Sir, I am anybody, at your service. 

Just. Lady, I desire to know your name. 

Sir John. Sir, my name's Mary. 

Just. Ay, but jour surname, madam ? 

Sir John. Sir, my surname's the very same with 
my husband's. 

Just. A strange woman this ! — Who is your 
husband, pray ? 

Sir John. Sir John. 

Just. Sir John who ? 

Sir John. Sir John Brute. 

Just. Is it possible, madam, you can be my lady 
Brute ? 

Sir John. That happy woman, sir, am I ; only 
a little in my merriment to-night. 

Just. I am concerned for sir John. 

Sir John. Truly so am I. 

Just. I have heard he's an honest gentleman. 



Sir John. As ever drank. 

Just. Good lack ! Indeed, lady, I'm sorry he 
has such a wife. 

Sir John. I am sorry he has any wife at all. 

Just. And so, perhaps, may he. — I doubt you 
have not given him a very good taste of matrimony. 

Sir John. Taste, sir ! Sir, I have scorned to 
stint him to a taste, I have given him a full meal 
of it. ' 

Just, Indeed I believe so ! But pray, fair 
lady, may he have given you any occasion for this 
extraordinary conduct ? — does he not use you well ? 

Sir John. A little upon the rough sometimes. 

Just. Ay, any man may be out of humour now 
and then. 

Sir John. Sir, I love peace and quiet, and when 
a woman don't find that at home, she's apt some- 
times to comfort herself with a few innocent 
diversions abroad. 

Just. I doubt he uses you but too well. Pray 
how does he as to that weighty thing, money ? 
Does he allow you what is proper of that ? 

Sir John. Sir, I have generally enough to pay 
the reckoning, if this son of a whore of a drawer 
would but bring his bill. 

Just. A strange woman this ! — Does he spend 
a reasonable portion of his time at home, to the 
comfort of his wife and children ? 

Sir John. He never gave his wife cause to 
repine at his being abroad in his life. 

Just. Pray, madam, how may he be in the 
grand matrimonial point ? — is he true to your bed ? 

Sir John. [Aside.] Chaste ! oons ! This fellow 
asks so many impertinent questions ! egad I 
believe it is the justice's wife, in the justice's 
clothes. 

Just. 'Tis a great pity he should have been thus 
disposed of. — Pray, madam, (and then I've done,) 
what may be your ladyship's common method of 
life ? If I may presume so far. 

Sir John. Why, sir, much that of a woman of 
quality. 

Just. Pray how may you generally pass your 
time, madam? your morning for example. 

Sir John. Sir, like a woman of quality. — I wake 
about two o'clock in the afternoon — I stretch— 
and make a sign for my chocolate. — When I have 
drank three cups — I slide down again upon my 
back, with my arms over my head, while my two 
maids put on my stockings. — Then, hanging upon 
their shoulders, I am trailed to my great chair, 
where I sit — and yawn — for my breakfast. — If it 
don't come presently, I lie down upon my couch to 
say my prayers, while my maid reads me the play- 
bills. 

Just. Very well, madam. 

Sir John. When the tea is brought in, I drink 
twelve regular dishes, with eight slices of bread 
and butter. — And half an hour after, I send to the 
cook to know if the dinner is almost ready. 

Just. So, madam ■ 

Sir John. By that time my head is half dressed, 
I hear my husband swearing himself into a state 
of perdition that the meat's all cold upon the 
table, to amend which, I come down in an hour 
more, and have it sent back to the kitchen, to be 
all dressed over again. 

Just. Poor man ! 

Sir John. When I have dined, and my idle 
servants are presumptuously set down at their ease. 



360 



THE PROVOKED WIFE. 



to do so too, I call for my coach, to go visit fifty 
dear friends, of whom I hope I shall never find 
one at home while I shall live. 

Just. So, there's the morning and afternoon 
pretty well disposed of! — Pray, madam, how do 
you pass your evenings ? 

Sir John. Like a woman of spirit, sir, a great 
spirit. Give me a box and dice. — Seven's the 
main ! Oons ! Sir, I set you a hundred pound ! — 
Why, do you think women are married now a days, 
to sit at home and mend napkins ? Sir, we have 
nobler ways of passing time. 

Just. Mercy upon us, Mr. Constable, what 
will this age come to ? 

Con. What will it come to, indeed, if such 
women as these are not set in the stocks ? 

Sir John. Sir, I have a little urgent business 
calls upon me ; and therefore I desire the favour 
of you to bring matters to a conclusion. 

Just. Madam, if I were sure that business were 
not to commit more disorders, I would release 
you. 



Sir John. None — by my virtue. 

Just. Then, Mr. Constable, you may discharge 
her. 

Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. If 
you please to accept of a bottle — 

Just. I thank you kindly, madam ; but I never 
drink in a morning. Good-by-t'ye, madam, good- 
by-t'ye. 

Sir John. Good-by-t'ye, good sir. — [Exit Jus- 
tice.] So ! — Now, Mr. Constable, shall you and I 
go pick up a whore together ? 

Con. No, thank you, madam ; my wife's enough 
to satisfy any reasonable man. 

Sir John. [Aside.'] He ! he ! he ! he ! he ! — 
the fool is married then. — [Aloud.] Well, you 
won't go ? 

Con. Not I, truly. 

Sir John. Then I'll go by myself ; and you and 
your wife may be damned. [Exit. 

Con. [Gazing after him.'] Why God-a-mercy, 
lady ! '^Exeunt. 



M S O P. 

& fflonwlrp* 

PREFACE. 

To speak for a play if it can't speak for itself is vain ; and if it can, 'tis needless. For one of these reasons (I can't 
yet tell which, for 'tis now but the second day of acting) I resolve to say nothing for iEsop, though I know he'd be glad 
of help ; for let the best happen that can, his journey's up hill, with a dead English weight at the tail of him. 

At Paris indeed he scrambled up something faster (for 'twas up hill there too) than I'm afraid he will do here : the 
French having more mercury in their heads, and less beef and pudding in their bellies. Our solidity may set hard, 
what their folly makes easy : for fools I own they are, you know we have found them so in the conduct of the war ; 
I wish we may do so in the management of the peace : but that's neither iEsop's business nor mine. 

This play, gentlemen (or one not much unlike it) , was writ in French about six years since by one Monsieur Boursault ; 
'twas played at Paris by the French comedians, and this was its fate : — The first day it appeared, 'twas routed ; — people 
seldom being fond of what they don't understand, their own sweet persons excepted. The second (by the help of some 
bold knight-errants) it rallied ; the third it advanced ; the fourth it gave a vigorous attack ; and the fifth put all the 
feathers in town to the scamper, pursuing 'em on to the fourteenth, and then they cried out quarter. 

'Tis not reasonable to expect iEsop should gain so great a victory here, since 'tis possible by fooling with his sword 
I may have turned the edge on't. For I confess in the translation I have not at all stuck to the original. Nay, I have 
gone farther : I have wholly added the fifth Act, and crowded a country gentleman into the fourth, for which I ask 
Monsieur Boursault's pardon with all my heart, but doubt I never shall obtain it for bringing him into such company. 
Though after all, had I been so complaisant to have waited on his play word for word, 'tis possible even that might not 
have ensured the success of it : for though it swam in France, it might have sunk in England. Their country abounds 
in cork, ours in lead. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



iEsop. 

Learchus, Governor of Cyzicus 

Oronces, in love with Euphronia. 



Euphronia, Daughter to Learchus, in love with 

Oronces. 
Doris, her Nurse. 



A Priest, Musicians, Dancers, Servants, &c. 



People who come to iEsop, upon several occasions, 
independent one of another. 



Humphry, } two Countr V Tradesmen. 

Roger, a Country Bumpkin. 

Quaint, a Herald, 

Fruitful, an Innkeeper. 

Mrs. Fruitful, his Wife. 

Sir Polidorus Hogstye, a Country Gentleman. 

Hortensia, an affected learned Lady. 

Aminta, a lewd Mother. 

Mrs. Forgewill, a Scrivener's Widow. 



SCENE,— Cyzicus. 



PROLOGUE. 



Gallants ! we never yet produced a play 
With greater fears than this we act to-day ; 
Barren of all the graces of the stage, 
Barren of all that entertains this age. 
No hero, no romance, no plot, no show, 
No rape, no bawdy, no intrigue, no beau : 
There's nothing in't with which we use to please ye; 
With downright dull instruction we're to tease ye: 
The stage turns pulpit, and the world 's so fickle," 
The playhouse in a whim turns conventicle. 
But preaching here must prove a hungry trade, 
The patentees will find so, I 'm afraid : 



For though with heavenly zeal you all abound, 
As by your lives and morals may be found ; 
Though every female here o'erfiows with grace, 
And chaste Diana's written in her face ; 
Though maids renounce the sweets of fornication, 
And one lewd wife's not left in all the nation ; 
Though men grow true, and the foul fiend defy ; 
Though tradesmen cheat no more, nor lawyers lie ; 
Though not one spot be found on Levi's tribe, 
Nor one soft courtier that will touch a bribe ; 
Yet in the midst of such religious days, 
Sermons have never borne the price of plays. 



368 



iESOP. 



ACT 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 
Enter Learchus, Euphronia, and Doris. 

Lear. At length I am blessed with the sight of 
the world's wonder, the delight of mankind, the 
incomparable iEsop. — You had time to observe 
him last night, daughter, as he sat at supper with 
me. Tell me how you like him, child ; is he not a 
charming person ? 

Euph. Charming ! 

Lear. What sayest thou to him, Doris ? Thou 
art a good judge, a wench of a nice palate. 

Dor. You would not have me natter, sir ? 

Lear. No, speak thy thoughts boldly. 

Dor. Boldly, you say ? 

Lear. Boldly, I say. 

Dor. Why then, sir, my opinion of the gentle- 
man is, that he's uglier than an old beau. 

Lear. How! Impudence. 

Dor. Nay, if you are angry, sir, second thoughts 
are best ; he's as proper as a pikeman, holds up 
his head like a dancing-master, has the shape of a 
barb, the face of an angel, the voice of a cherubim, 
the smell of a civet-cat — 

Lear. In short, thou art fool enough not to be 
pleased with him. 

Dor. Excuse me for that, sir ; I have wit enough 
to make myself merry with him. 

Lear. If his body's deformed, his soul is beau- 
tiful : would to kind Heaven, as he is, my daughter 
could but find the means to please him ! 

Euph. To what end, dear father ? 

Lear. That he might be your husband, dear 
daughter. 

Euph. My husband ! Shield me, kind Heaven ! 

Dor. Psha ! he has a mind to make us laugh, 
that's all. 

Lear. iEsop, then, is not worth her care, in thy 
opinion ? 

Dor. Why truly, sir, I'm always for making 
suitable matches, and don't much approve of breed- 
ing monsters. I would have nothing marry a baboon 
but what has been got by a monkey. 

Lear. How darest thou liken so incomparable a 
man to so contemptible a beast ? 

Dor. Ah, the inconstancy of this world ! Out 
of sight, out of mind. Your little monkey is scarce 
cold in his grave, and you have already forgot what 
you used so much to admire. Do but call him to 
remembrance, sir, in his red coat, new gloves, little 
hat, and clean linen ; then discharge your con- 
science, utter the truth from your heart, and tell 
us whether he was not the prettier gentleman of 
the two. — By my virginity, sir, (though that's but 
a slippery oath you'll say,) had they made love to 
me together, iEsop should have worn the willow. 

Lear. Since nothing but an animal will please 
thee, 'tis pity my monkey had not that virginity 
thou hast sworn by. But I, whom wisdom charms, 
even in the homeliest dress, can never think the 
much deserving iEsop unworthy of my daughter. 

Dor. Now, in the name of wonder, what is't you 
so admire in him ? 

Lear. Hark, and thou shalt know ; but you, 
Euphronia, be you more especially attentive. 



'Tis true, he's plain ; but that, my girl's, a trifle. 
All manly beauty's seated in the soul ; 
And that of iEsop, envy's self must own 
Outshines whate'er the world has yet produced. 
Crcesus, the prosperous favourite of Heaven ; 
Croesus, the happiest potentate on earth; 
Whose treasure (though immense) is the least part 
Of what he holds from Providence's care, 
Leans on his shoulder as his grand support ; 
Admires his wisdom, dotes upon his truth, 
And makes him pilot to imperial sway. 
But in this elevated post of power, 
What's his employ ? where does he point his 

thoughts ? 
To live in splendour, luxury, and ease, 
Do endless mischiefs, by neglecting good, 
And build his family on others' ruins ? 
No: 

He serves the prince, and serves the people too ; 
Is useful to the rich, and helps the poor ; 
There's nothing stands neglected, but himself. 
With constant pain, and yet with constant joy, 
From place to place throughout the realm he goes, 
With useful lessons, form'd to every rank : 
The people learn obedience from his tongue, 
The magistrate is guided in command, 
The prince is minded of a father's care ; 
The subject's taught the duty of a child. 
And as 'tis dangerous to be bold with truth, 
He often calls for fable to his aid, 
Where under abject names of beasts and birds, 
Virtue shines out, and vice is clothed in shame : 
And thus by inoffensive wisdom's force, 
He conquers folly wheresoe'er he moves ! 
This is his portrait. 

Dor. A very good picture of a very ill face ! 

Lear. Well, daughter ; what, not a word? Is it 
possible anything that I am father of can be un- 
touched with so much merit ? 

Euph. My duty may make all things possible. 
But iEsop is so ugly, sir. , 

Lear. His soul has so much beauty in't, your 
reason ought to blind your eyes. Besides, my in- 
terest is concerned ; his power alarms me. I know 
throughout the kingdom he's the scourge of evil 
magistrates ; turns out governors when they turn 
tyrants ; breaks officers for false musters ; excludes 
judges from giving sentence when they have been 
absent during the trial ; hangs lawyers when they 
take fees on both sides ; forbids physicians to take 
money of those they don't cure. 'Tis true, my 
innocence ought to banish my fears : but my 
government, child, is too delicious a morsel not to 
set many a frail mouth a-watering. Who knows 
what accusations envy may produce ? But all 
would be secure, if thou couldst touch the heart of 
iEsop. Let me blow up thy ambition, girl ; the 
fire of that will make thy eyes sparkle at him. — 
[Euphronia sighs.] What's that sigh for now? 
Ha ! — A young husband, by my conscience ! Ah, 
daughter, hadst thou a young husband, he'd make 
thee sigh indeed. I'll tell thee what he's composed 
of. He has a wig full of pulvilio, a pocket full of 
dice, a heart full of treason, a mouth full of lies, a 
belly full of drink, a carcass full of plasters, a tail 



jESOP. 



full of pox, and a head full of— -nothing. There's 
his picture ; wear it at thy heart if thou canst. 
But here comes one of greater worth. 
Enter JEsop. 

Lear. Good morning to my nohle lord ! your 
excellency — 

JEsop. Softly, good governor : 
I'm a poor wanderer from place to place ; 
Too weak to train the weight of grandeur with me. 
The name of excellency's not for me. 

Lear. My noble lord, 'tis due to your employ ; 
Your predecessors all — 

JEsop. My predecessors all deserved it, sir, 
They were great men in wisdom, birth, and service ; 
Whilst I, a poor, unknown, decrepit wretch, 
Mounted aloft for Fortune's pastime, 
Expect each moment to conclude the farce, 
By sinking to the mud from whence I sprung. 

Lear. Great Croesus' gratitude will still support 
His coffers all are open to your will, [you ; 

Your future fortune's wholly in your power. 

JEsop. But 'tis a power that I shall ne'er employ. 

Lear. Why so, my lord ? 

JEsop. I'll tell you, sir. 

A hungry goat, who had not eat 

Some nights and days — (for want of meat) 

Was kindly brought at last. 

By Providence's care, 

To better cheer, 

After a more than penitential fast. 

He found a barn well stored with grain, 

To enter in required some pain ; 

But a delicious bait 

Makes the way easy, though the pass is strait. 

Our guest observing various meats, 

He puts on a good modish face, 

He takes his place, 

He ne'er says grace, 

But where he likes, he there falls to and eats. 

At length with jaded teeth and jaws, 

He made a pause, 

And finding still some room, 

Fell to as he had done before, 

For time to come laid in his store ; 

And when his guts could hold no more, 

He thought of going home. 

But here he met the glutton's curse ; 

He found his belly grown so great, 

'Twas vain to think of a retreat, 

Till he had render'd all he'ad eat, 

And well he fared no worse. 
To the application, governor. 

Lear. 'Tis easy to be made, my lord. 

JEsop. I'm glad on't. Truth can never be too 
clear. [Seeing Euphronia. 

Is this young damsel your fair daughter, sir ? 

Lear. 'Tis my daughter, my good lord. Fair 
too, if she appears such in the eyes of the unerring 
yEsop. 

JEsop. I never saw so beautiful a creature. 

IGoing up to salute her. 

Lear. [Aside. - ] Now's the time ; kiss, soft girl, 
and fire him. 

JEsop. How partial's nature 'twixt her form and 
mine ! [Gazing at her. 

Lear. [Aside.] Look, look, look, how he gazes 
at her ! — Cupid's hard at work, I see that already. 
Slap ; there he hits him ! — If the wench would but 
do her part. — But see, see, how the perverse young 



baggage stands biting her thumbs, and won't give 
him one kind glance ! — Ah the sullen jade ! Had it 
been a handsome strong dog of five-and-twenty, 
she'd a fallen a coquetting on't, with every inch 
about her. But maybe it's I that spoil sport, I'll 
make a pretence to leave 'em together, — [Aloud.] 
Will your lordship please to drink any coffee this 
morning ? 

Msop. With all my heart, governor. 

Lear. Your lordship will give me leave to go 
and order it myself ; for unless I am by, 'tis never 
perfect. 

JEsop. Provided you leave me this fair maid in 
hostage for your return, I consent. 

Lear. My good lord does my daughter too much 
honour. — [Aside.] Ah, that the wench would but 
do her part ! — [Aside to Euphronia.] Hark you, 
hussy ! You can give yourself airs sometimes, you 
know you can. Do you remember what work you 
made with yourself at church t'other day ? Play 
your tricks over again once more for my pleasure, 
and let me have a good account of this statesman, 
or, d'ye hear ? — you shall die a maid ; go chew 
upon that ; go. [Exit. 

Msop. Here I am left, fair damsel, too much 
exposed to your charms, not to fall your victim. 

Euph. Your fall will then be due to your own 
weakness, sir ; for Heaven's my witness, I neither 
endeavour nor wish to wound you. 

Msop. I understand you, lady ; your heart's 
already disposed of, 'tis seldom otherwise at your 
age. 

Euph. My heart disposed of ! 

Dor. Nay, never mince the matter, madam. 
The gentleman looks like a civil gentleman, e'en 
confess the truth to him. He has a good interest 
with your father, and no doubt will employ it to 
break the heathenish match he proposes to you. — - 
[To JEsof.] Yes, sir, my young lady has been in 
love these two years, and that with as pretty a 
fellow as ever entered a virgin's heart ; tall, 
straight, young, vigorous, good clothes, long peri- 
wig, clean linen ; in brief, he has everything that's 
necessary to set a young lady a-longing, and to stay 
it when he has done. But her father, whose ambi- 
tion makes him turn fool in his old age, comes 
with a back stroke upon us, and spoils all our 
sport. Would you believe it, sir ! he has proposed 
to her to-day the most confounded ugly fellow. 
Look, if the very thoughts of him don't set the 
poor thing a-crying ? And you, sir, have so much 
power with the old gentleman, that one word from 
you would set us all right again. If he will have 
her a wife, in the name of Venus let him provide 
her a handsome husband, and not throw her into 
the paws of a thing that nature in a merry humour 
has made half man, half monkey. 

JEsop. Pray what's this monster's name, lady ? 

Euph. No matter for his name, sir ; my father 
will know who you mean at first word. 

JEsop. But you should not always choose by the 
outside alone ; believe me, fair damsel, a fine peri- 
wig keeps many a fool's head from the weather. 
Have a care of your young gallant. 

Dor. There's no danger, I have examined him ; 
his inside's as good as his out ; I say he has wit, 
and I think I know. 

Euph. Nay, she says true ; he's even a miracle 
of wit and beauty : did you but see him, you'd be 
yourself my rival. 

B B 



370 



^SOP. 



JEsop. Then you are resolved against the monster. 

Dor. Fy, sir, fy ! I wonder you'll put her in 
mind of that foul frightful thing. We shall have 
her dream of nothing all night but bats and owls, 
and toads and hedgehogs, and then we shall have 
such a squeaking and squalling with her, the whole 
house will be in an uproar : therefore, pray sir, 
name him no more, but use your interest with her 
father that she may never hear of him again. 

JEsop. But if I should be so generous to save 
you from the old gallant, what shall I say for your 
young one ? 

Euph. Oh, sir, you may venture to enlarge upon 
his perfections ; you need not fear saying too much 
in his praise. 

Dor. And pray, sir, be as copious upon the 
defects of t'other ; you need not fear outrunning 
the text there neither, say the worst you can. 

Euph. You may say the first is the most graceful 
man that Asia ever brought forth. 

Dor. And you may say the latter is the most 
deformed monster that copulation ever produced. 

Euph. Tell him that Oronces (for that 's his 
dear name) has all the virtues that compose a 
perfect hero. 

Dor. And tell him that Pigmy has all the vices 
that go to equip an attorney. 

Euph. That to one I could be true to the last 
moment of my life. 

Dor. That for t'other she'd cuckold him the 
very day of her marriage. — This, sir, in few words, 
is the theme you are desired to preach upon. 

JEsop. I never yet had one that furnished me 
more matter. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. My lord, there's a lady below desires to 
speak with your honour. 

JEsop. What lady? 

Ser. It's my lady — my lady — [7*0 Doris.] The 
lady there, the wise lady, the great scholar, that no- 
body can understand. 

Dor. O ho, is it she ? pray let's withdraw, and 
oblige her, madam ; she's ready to swoon at the 
insipid sight of one of her own sex. 

Euph. You'll excuse us, sir, we leave you to 
wiser company. [Exeunt Euphronia and Doris. 

Enter Hortensia. 

Hort. The D£esse who from Atropos's breast 
preserves 
The names of heroes and their actions, 
Proclaims your fame throughout this mighty orb, 
And— 

JEsop. [Aside.'] Shield me, my stars ! what have 
you sent me here ? — [Aloud.] For pity's sake, good 
lady, be more humane : my capacity is too heavy to 
mount to your style : if you would have me know 
what you mean, please to come down to my under- 
standing. 

Hort. I've something in my nature soars too 
high 
For vulgar flight, I own ; 
But JEsop's sphere must needs be within call ; 
^Esop and I may sure converse together. 
I know he's modest, but I likewise know 
His intellects are categorical. 

JEsop. Now, by my faith, lady, I don't know 
what intellect is ; and methinks categorical sounds 
as if you called me names. Pray speak that you 



may be understood ; language was designed for it, 
indeed it was. 

Hort. Of vulgar things, in vulgar phrase we talk ; 
But when of iEsop we must speak, 
The theme's too lofty for an humble style : 
iEsop is sure no common character. 

JEsop. No, truly, I am something particular. 
Yet, if I am not mistaken, what I have extraor- 
dinai-y about me, may be described in very homely 
language. Here was a young gentlewoman but 
just now pencilled me out to a hair, I thought ; and 
yet, I vow to Gad, the learned' st word I heard her 
make use of, was monster. 

Hort. That was a woman, sir, a very woman ; 
Her cogitations all were on the outward man : 
But I strike deeper, 'tis the mind I view. 
The soul's the worthy object of my care ; 
The soul, that sample of divinity, 
That glorious ray of heavenly light. The soul, 
That awful throne of thought, that sacred seat 
Of contemplation. The soul, that noble source 
Of wisdom, that fountain of comfort, that spring 

of joy, 
That happy token of eternal life : 
The soul, that 

JEsop. Pray, lady, are you married ? 

Hort. Why that question, sir ? 

Msop. Only that I might wait upon your bus- 
band to wish him joy. 

Hort. When people of my composition would 
marry, they first find something of their own 
species to join with ; I never could resolve to take 
a thing of common fabric to my bed, lest when his 
brutish inclinations prompt him, he should make 
me mother to a form like his own. 

JEsop. Methinks a lady so extremely nice, should 
be much at a loss who to converse with. 

Hort. Sir I keep my chamber, and converse with 
myself; 'tis better being alone, than to misally 
one's conversation. Men are scandalous, and 
women are insipid : discourse without figure makes 
me sick at my soul : Oh the charms of a metaphor ! 
What harmony there is in words of erudition ! 
The music of them is inimaginable. 

JEsop. Will you hear a fable, lady ? 

Hort. Willingly, sir ; the apologue pleases me 
when the application of it is just. 

JEsop. It is, I'll answer for it. 

Once on a time, a nightingale 

To changes prone ; 
Unconstant, fickle, whimsical, 

(A female one) 
Who sung like others of her kind, 
Hearing a well-taught linnet's airs, 
Had other matters in her mind, 
To imitate him she prepares. 
Her fancy straight was on the wing : 

" I fly," quoth she, 

" As well as he ; 
I don't know why 
I should not try 
As well as he to sing." 
From that day forth she changed her note, 
She spoil'd her voice, she strain'd her throat 
She did, as learned women do, 

Till every thing 

That heard her sing, 
Would run away from her — as I from you. 

[Exit, running- 



^:sop. 



Hart. How grossly does this poor world suffer 
itself to be imposed upon ! — JSsop, a man of sense ! 
— Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Alas, poor wretch ! I 
should not have known him but by his deformity, 
his soul's as nauseous to my understanding, as his 
odious body to my sense of feeling. Well, 



'Moogst all the wits that are allow'd to shine, 
Methinks there's nothing yet approaches mine : 
Sure I was sent the homely age to adorn ; 
What star, I know not, ruled when I was born, 
But everything besides myself's my scorn. 

lExit. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 
Enter Euphronia and Dokis. 

Dor. What in the name of Jove's the matter 
with you ? Speak, for Heaven's sake ! 

Euph. Oh ! what shall I do ? Doris, I'm undone. 

Dor. What, ravished ? 

Euph. No, ten times worse ! ten times worse ! 
Unlane me, or I shall swoon. 

Dor. Unlace you i why you are not thereabouts, 
I hope? 

Euph. No, no ; worse still ; worse than all that. 

Dor. Nay, then it's bad indeed.— [Doris un- 
laces her.'] There, how d'ye do now ? 

Euph. So ; it's going over. 

Dor. Courage, pluck up your spirits ! Well, now 
what's the matter ! 

Euph. The matter ! thou sha't hear. Know 
that — that cheat — yEsop — 

Dor. Like enough ; speak ! What has he done ? 
that ugly ill-boding Cyclops. 

Euph. Why, instead of keeping his promise, 
and speaking for Oronces, he has not said one 
word but what has been for himself. And by my 
father's order, before to-morrow noon he's to 
marry me. 

Dor. He marry you ! 

Euph. Am I in the wrong to be in this despair ? 
Tell me, Doris, if I am to blame ? 

Dor. To blame ! no, by my troth. That ugly, 
old, treacherous piece of vermin ! that melancholy 
mixture of impotence and desire ! does his mouth 
stand to a young partridge ! ah, the old goat ! 
And your father ! — he downright dotes at last then. 

Euph. Ah, Doris ; what a husband does he give 
me ! and what a lover does he rob me of ! Thou 
knowest 'em both ; think of Oronces, and think of 
iEsop. 

Dor. [Spitting.] A foul monster ! And yet, 
now I think on't, I'm almost as angry at t'other 
too. Methinks he makes but a slow voyage on't 
for a man in love : 'tis now above two months 
since he went to Lesbos, to pack up the old bones 
of his dead father ; sure he might have made a 
little more haste. 

Enter Oronces. 

Euph. Oh ! my heart ; what do I see ? 

Dor. Talk of the devil, and he's at your elbow. 

Oron. My dear soul ! 

[Euphronia runs and leaps about his neck. 

Euph. Why would you stay so long from me ? 

Oron. 'Twas not my fault indeed ; the winds — 

Dor. The winds ! Will the winds blow you your 
mistress again ? We have had winds too, and 
waves into the bargain, storms and tempests, sea 
monsters, and the devil and all. She struggled as 
long as she could, but a woman can do no more 



than she can do ; when her breath was gone, down 
she sunk. 

Oron. What's the meaning of all this ? 

Dor. Meaning ! There's meaning and mumping 
too : your mistress is married, that's all. 

Oron. Death and furies ! 

Euph. [ Clinging about him.] Don't you frighten 
him too much, neither, Doris. — No, my dear, I'm 
not yet executed, though I'm condemned. 

Oron. Condemned ! to what ? Speak ! quick ! 

Dor. To be married. 

Oron. Married ! When ? how ? where ? to what ? 
to whom ? 

Dor. JEsop ! vEsop ! yEsop ! JEsop ! iEsop ! 

Oron. Fiends and spectres ! What ! that piece 
of deformity ! that monster ! that crump ! 

Dor. The same, sir, the same. — I find he knows 
him. — You might have come home sooner. 

Oron. Dear Euphronia, ease me from my pain. 
Swear that you neither have nor will consent. 
I know this comes from your ambitious father ; 
But you're too generous, too true to leave me : 
Millions of kingdoms ne'er would shake my faith, 
And I believe your constancy as firm. 

Euph. You do me justice, you shall find you do : 
For racks and tortures, crowns and sceptres join'd, 
Shall neither fright me from my truth, nor tempt 
Me to be false. On this you may depend. 

Dor. Would to the Lord you would find some 
other place to make your fine speeches in ! Don't 
you know that our dear friend yEsop's coming to 
receive his visits here ? In this great downy chair 
your pretty little husband-elect is to sit and hear 
all the complaints of the town: one of wisdom's 
chief recompenses being to be constantly troubled 
with the business of fools. — Pray, madam, will you 
take the gentleman by the hand, and lead him into 
your chamber ; and when you are there, don't lie 
whining, and crying, and sighing, and wishing — 
[J side.] If he had not been more modest than 
j wise, he might have set such a mark upon the 
' goods before now, that ne'er a merchant of 'em all 
| would have bought 'em out of his hands. But 
young fellows are always in the wrong : either so 
impudent they are nauseous, or so modest they 
are useless.— [Aloud.] Go, pray get you gone 
together. 

Euph. But if my father catch us, we are ruined. 

Dor. By my conscience, this love will make us 
all turn fools ! Before your father can open the 
door, can't he slip down the back-stairs ? I'm sure 
he may, if you don't hold him ; but that's the old 
trade. Ah — well, get you gone, however. — Hark ! 
I hear the old baboon cough ; away ! — [Exeunt 
Oronces and Euphronia running.] Here he 
comes, with his ugly beak before him ! Ah — a 
luscious bedfellow, by my troth ! 
BB2 



372 



JESOP. 



Enter Learchus and JEsop. 

Lear. Well, Doris, what news from my daugh- 
ter ? Is she prudent ? 

Dor. Yes, very prudent. 

Lear. What says she ? what does she do ? 

Dor. Do ? what should she do ? Tears her 
cornet ; bites her thumbs ; throws her fan in the 
fire ; thinks it's dark night at noon-day ; dreams 
of monsters and hobgoblins ; raves in her sleep of 
forced marriage and cuckoldom ; cries Avaunt 
Deformity ! then wakens of a sudden, with fifty argu- 
ments at her fingers' ends, to prove the lawfulness 
of rebellion in a child, when a parent turns tyrant. 

Lear. Very fine ! but all this shan't serve her 
turn. — I have said the word, and will be obeyed. — 
My lord does her honour. 

Dor. [Aside.'] Yes, and that's all he can do to 
her. — [To Learchus.] But I can't blame the 
gentleman, after all ; he loves my mistress because 
she's handsome, and she hates him because he's 
ugly. I never saw two people more in the right 
in my life. — [To iEsop.] You'll pardon me, sir, 
I'm somewhat free. 

Msop. Why, a ceremony would but take up 
time. — But, governor, methinks I have an admir- 
able advocate about your daughter. 

Lear. Out of the room, Impudence ! begone, I 
say ! 

Dor. So I will ; but you'll be as much in the 
wrong when 1 am gone as when I am here : and 
your conscience, I hope, will talk as pertly to 
you as I can do. 

Msop. If she treats me thus before my face, I 
may conclude I'm finely handled behind my back. 

Dor. I say the truth here, and I can say no 
worse anywhere. {Exit. 

Lear. I hope your lordship won't be concerned 
at what this prattling wench bleats out ; my daugh- 
ter will be governed, she's bred up to obedience. 
There may be some small difficulty in weaning her 
from her young lover ; but 'twon't be the first time 
she has been weaned from a breast, my lord. 

Msop. Does she love him fondly, sir ? 

Lear. Foolishly, my lord. 

Msop. And he her ? 

Lear. The same. 

Msop. Is he young ? 

Lear. Yes, and vigorous. 

Msop. Rich? 

Lear. So, so. 

Msop. Well-born ? 

Lear. He has good blood in his veins. 

Msop. Has he wit ? 

Lear. He had, before he was in love. 

Msop. And handsome with all this ? 

Lear. Or else we should not have half so much 
trouble with him. 

Msop. Why do you then make her quit him for 
me ? All the world knows I am neither young, 
noble, nor rich ; and as for my beauty — look you, 
governor, I'm honest. But when children cry, 
they tell 'em iEsop's a-coming. Pray, sir, what 
is it makes you so earnest to force your daughter ? 

Lear. Am I then to count for nothing the 
favour you are in at court ? Father-in-law to the 
great iEsop ! What may I not aspire to ? My 
foolish daughter, perhaps, mayn't be so well pleased 
with't, but we wise parents usually weigh our chil- 
dren's happiness in the scale of our own inclina- 
tions. 



Msop. Well, governor, let it be your care, then, 
to make her consent. 

Lear. This moment, my lord, I reduce her either 
to obedience, or to dust and ashes. [Exit. 

Msop. Adieu ! — [Calls to a Servant.] Now let 
in the people who come for audience. 

[Seats himself in his chair, reading papers. 

Enter Hobson and Humphry. 

Hob. There he is, neighbour, do but look at 
him. 

Hum. Ay, one may know him, he's well marked. 
But, dost hear me ? what title must we give him ? 
for if we fail in that point, d'ye see me, we shall 
never get our business done. Courtiers love titles 
almost as well as they do money, and that's a bold 
word now. 

Hob. Why, I think we had best call him his 
Grandeur. 

Hum. That will do ; thou hast hit on't. Hold 
still, let me speak. — May it please your grandeur — 

Msop. There I interrupt you, friend ; I have a 
weak body that will ne'er be able to bear that title. 

Hum. D'ye hear that, neighbour ? what shall 
we call him now ? 

Hob. Why, call him, — call him — his Excellency; 
try what that will do. 

Hum. May it please your excellency — 

Msop. Excellency's a long word ; it takes up 
too much time in business. Tell me what you'd 
have in few words. 

Hum. Neighbour, this man will never give ten 
thousand pounds to be made a lord. But what 
shall I say to him now ? He puts me quite out of 
my play. 

Hob. Why e'en talk to him as we do to one 
another. 

Hum. Shall I ? why so I will then. — Hem ! 
Neighbour ; we want a new governor, neighbour. 

Msop. A new governor, friend I 

Hum. Ay, friend. 

Msop. Why, what's the matter with your old one ? 

Hum. What's the matter ? Why he grows 
rich ; that's the matter : and he that's rich, can't 
be innocent ; that's all. 

Msop. Does he use any of you harshiy ? or 
punish you without a fault ? 

Hum. No, but he grows as rich as a miser, his 
purse is so crammed, it's ready to burst again. 

Msop. When 'tis full 'twill hold no more. A 
new governor will have an empty one. 

Hum. 'Fore Gad, neighbour, the little gentle- 
man's in the right on't ! 

Hob. Why truly I don't know but he may. For 
now it comes in my head. It cost me more money 
to fat my hog, than to keep him fat when he was so. 
Prithee, tell him we'll e'en keep our old governor. 

Hum. I'll do't. — Why, look you, sir, d'ye see 
me ? having seriously considered of the matter, my 
neighbour Hobson, and I here, we are content to 
jog on a little longer with him we have : but if you'd 
do us another courtesy, you might. 

Msop. What's that, friend ? 

Hum. Why that's this : our king Croesus is a 
very good prince, as a man may say : — but — a — 
but— taxes are high, an't please you; and — a — 
poor men want money, d'ye see me. It's very 
hard, as we think, that the poor should work to 
maintain the rich. If there were no taxes, we 
should do pretty well. 



SCENE I. 



JESOP. 



37-3 



Hob. Taxes indeed are very burdensome. 
Msop. I'll tell you a story, countrymen. 

Once on a time, the hands and feet, 
As mutineers, grew mighty great ; 
They met, caball'd, and talk'd of treason, 
They swore by Jove they knew no reason 
The belly should have all the meat ; 
It was a damn'd notorious cheat, 
They did the work, and — death and hell, they'd 
eat ! 

The belly, who adored good cheer, 

Had like to have died away for fear : 

Quoth he, " Good folks, you little know 

What 'tis you are about to do ; 

If I am starved, what will become of you ?" 

" We neither know nor care," cried they ; 

" But this we will be bold to say, 

We'll see you damn'd 

Before we'll work, 

And you receive the pay." 

With that the hands to pocket went, 
Full wristband deep, 
The legs and feet fell fast asleep : 
Their liberty they had redeem'd, 
And all except the belly seem'd 
Extremely well content. 

But mark what follow'd ; 'twas not long 

Before the right became the wrong, 

The mutineers were grown so weak, 

They found 'twas more than time to squeak : 

They call for work, but 'twas too late. 

The stomach (like an aged maid, 

Shrunk up for want of human aid,) 

The common debt of nature paid, 

And with its destiny entrain'd their fate. 

What think you of this story, friends, ha ? 
Come, yon look like wise men ; I'm sure you 
understand what's for your good. In giving part 
of what you have, you secure all the rest. If the 
king had no money, there could be no army ; and 
if there were no army, your enemies would be 
amongst you. One day's pillage would be worse 
than twenty years' taxes. What say you? is it 
not so ? 

Hum. By my troth, I think he's in the right 
on't again ! Who'd think that little humpback 
of his should have so much brains in't, neighbour ? 

JEsop. Well, honest men, is there anything else 
that I can serve you in ? 

Hob. D'ye hear that, Humphry ? — Why that 
was civil now. But courtiers seldom want good- 
breeding ; let's give the devil his due. — Why, to 
tell you the truth, honest gentleman, we had a whole 
budget full of grievances to complain of. But I 
think — a — ha, neighbour ? — we had e'en as good 
let 'em alone. 

Hum. Why good feath I think so too, for by all 
I can see, we are like to make no great hond on't. 
Besides, between thee and me, I begin to daubt, 
whether aur grievances do us such a plaguy deal of 
mischief as we fancy. 

Hob. Or put case they did, Humphry ; I'se 
afraid he that goes to a courtier, in hope to get 
fairly rid of 'em, may be said (in aur country 
dialect) to take the wrong sow by the ear. — But 
here's neighbour Roger, he's a wit, let's leave him 
to him, [Exeunt Hobson and Humphry. 



Enter Roger ; he looks seriously upon Msop, and then 
bursts out a-laughing. 

Rog. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Did ever mon 
behold the like ? ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Msop. Hast thou any business with me, friend ? 

Rog. Yes, by my troth, have I ; but if Roger 
were to be hanged up for't, look you now, he could 
not hold laughing. What I have in my mind, out 
it comes : but bar that ; I'se an honest lad as well 
as another. 

Msop. My time's dearer to me than yours, 
friend. Have you anything to say to me ? 

Rog. Gadswookers, do people use to ask for folks 
when they have nothing to say to 'em ? I'se tell 
you my business. 

Msop. Let's hear it. 

Rog. I have, as you see, a little wit. 

Msop. True. 

Rog. I live in a village hard by, and I'se the 
best man in it, though I say it that should not say 
it. I have good drink in my cellar, and good corn 
in my barn ; I have cows and oxen, hogs and sheep, 
cocks and hens, and geese and turkeys : but the 
truth will out, and so out let it. I'se e'en tired of 
being called plain Roger. I has a leathern purse, 
and in that purse there's many a fair half-crown, 
with the king's sweet face upon it, God bless him ; 
and with this money I have a mind to bind myself 
prentice to a courtier. It's a good trade, as 
I have heard say ; there's money stirring : let a 
lad be but diligent, and do what he's bid, he shall 
be let into the secret, and share part of the profits. 
I have not lived to these years for nothing :. those 
that will swim must go into deep water. I'se get 
our wife Joan to be the queen's chambermaid ; and 
then — crack says me I ! and forget all my acquaint- 
ance. But to come to the business. You who 
are the king's great favourite, I desire you'll be 
pleased to sell me some of your friendship, that I 
may get a court-place. Come, you shall choose 
me one yourself ; you look like a shrewd man ; by 
the mass you do ! 

Msop. I choose thee a place ! 

Rog. Yes : I would willingly have it such a sort 
of a place as would cost little, and bring in a 
great deal ; in a word, much profit, and nothing 
to do. 

Msop. But you must name what post you think 
would suit your humour. 

Rog. Why I'se pratty indifferent as to that : 
secretary of state, or butler ; twenty shillings more, 
twenty shillings less, is not the thing I stand upon. 
I'se no hagler, gadswookers ; and he that says I 
am — 'zbud he lies ! There's my humour now. 

Msop. But hark you, friend, you say you are 
well as you are ; why then do you desire to change ? 

Rog. Why what a question now is there for a 
man of your parts ? I'm well, d'ye see me ; and 
what of all that ? I desire to be better. There's 
an answer for you. — [Aside.] Let Roger alone 
with him. 

Msop. Very well : this is reasoning ; and I love 
a man should reason with me. But let us inquire 
a little whether your reasons are good or not. You 
say at home you want for nothing. 

Rog. Nothing, 'fore George. 

Msop. You have good drink ? 

Rog. 'Zbud the best i'th' parish ! [Sings. 

And dawne it merrily goes, my lad, 
And dawne it merrily goes ! 



374 



JESOP. 



JEsop. You eat heartily ? 

Rog. I have a noble stomach. 

JEsop. You sleep well? 

Rog. Just as I drink, till I can sleep no longer. 

JEsop. You have some honest neighbours ? 

Rog. Honest ! 'Zbud we are all so, the tawne 
raund, we live like breether ; when one can sarve 
another, he does it with all his heart and guts ; 
when we have anything that's good, we eat it 
together, holidays and Sundays we play at nine- 
pins, tumble upon the grass with wholesome young 
maids, laugh till we split, daunce till we are weary, 
eat till we burst, drink till we are sleepy, then swap 
into bed, and snore till we rise to breakfast. 

JEsop. And all this thou wouldst leave to go to 
court ! I'll tell thee what once happened. 
A mouse, who long had lived at court, 
(Yet ne'er the better christian for't) 
Walking one day to see some country sport, 
He met a homebred village-mouse. 
Who with an awkward speech and bow, 
That favoured much of cart and plough, 
Made a shift, I know not how, 
To invite him to his house. 
Quoth he, " My lord, I doubt you'll find 
Our country fare of homely kind ; 
But by my troth, you're welcome to't, 
Y'ave that, and bread, and cheese to boot :'' 
And so they sat and dined. 

Rog. Very well. 

JEsop. The courtier could have eat at least 
As much as any household priest, 
But thought himself obliged in feeding 
To show the difference of town-breeding ; 
He pick'd and cull'd, and turn'd the meat, 
He champ 'd and chew'd and could not eat : 
No toothless woman at fourscore, 
Was ever seen to mumble more. 
He made a thousand ugly faces, 
Which (as sometimes in ladies' cases) 
Were all design' d for airs and graces. 

Rog. Ha ! ha ! 

JEsop. At last he from the table rose, 
He pick'd his teeth, and blow'd his nose, 
And with an easy negligence, 
As though he lately came from France. 
He made a careless sliding bow : 
" 'Fore Gad," quoth he. " I don't know how 
I shall return your friendly treat ; 
But if you'll take a bit of meat 
In town with me, 
You there shall see 
How we poor courtiers eat." 

Rog. Tit for tat ; that was friendly. 

JEsop. There needed no more invitation 
To e'er a country squire i'tlv nation : 
Exactly to the time he came, 
Punctual as woman when she meets 
A man between a pair of sheets, 
As good a stomach, and as little shame. 

Rog. Ho ! ho ! ho ! ho ! ho ! 

JEsop. To say the truth he found good cheer, 
With wine, instead of ale and beer : 
But just as they sat down to eat, 
Comes bouncing in a hungry cat. 



Rog. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 

JEsop. The nimble courtier skipp'd from table, 
The squire leap'd too, as he was able : 
It can't be said that they were beat. 
It was no more than a retreat ; 
Which, when an army, not to fight 
j By day-light, runs away by night, 
Was ever judged a great and glorious feat. 

Rog. Ever ! ever ! ever ! 

JEsop. The cat retired, our guests return, 
The danger past becomes their scorn, 
They fall to eating as before ; — 
The butler rumbles at the door. 

Rog. Good Lord ! 

JEsop. To boot and saddle again they sound. 

Rog. Ta ra ! tan tan ta ra ! ra ra tan ta ra ! 

JEsop. They frown, as they would stand their 
ground, 
But (like some of our friends) they found 
'Twas safer much to scour. 

Rog. Tantive ! Tantive ! Tantive ! &c. 

JEsop. At length the squire, who hated arras, 
Was so perplex'd with these alarms, 
He rose up in a kind of heat : 
" Udzwooks !" quoth he, with all your meat, 
I will maintain a dish of pease, 
A radish, and a slice of cheese, 
With a good dessert of ease, 
Is much a better treat. 
However, 

Since every man should have his due, 
I own, sir, I'm obliged to you 
For your intentions at your board ; 
But pox upon your courtly crew !" 

Rog. Amen ! I pray the Lord. Ha ! ha i ha ! 
ha ! ha ! Now the de'el cuckold me if this story be 
not worth a sermon. — Give me your hond, sir. — 
If it had na' been for your friendly advice, I was 
going to be fool enough to be secretary of state. 

JEsop. Well, go thy ways home, and be wiser 
for the future. 

Rog. And so I will : for that same mause, your 
friend, was a witty person, gadsbudlikins ! and so 
our wife Joan shall know : for between you and I, 
'tis she has put me upon going to court. Sir, she 
has been so praud, so saucy, so rampant, ever since 
I brought her home a laced pinner, and a pink- 
cclour pair of shoe-strings, from Tickledawne Fair, 
the parson o'th' parish can't rule her ; and that 
you'll say's much. But so much for that. Naw 
I thank you for your good caunsel, honest little 
gentleman ; and to show you that I'se not un- 
grateful — give me your hand once more. — If you'll 
take the pains but to walk dawne to our towne — 
a word in your ear — I'se send you so drunk whome 
again, you shall remember friendly Roger as long 
as you have breath in your body. [Exit. 

JEsop. Farewell ! what I both envy and despise : 
Thy happiness and ignorance provoke me. 
How noble were the thing calFd knowledge, 
Did it but lead us to a bliss like thine ! 
But there's a secret curse in wisdom's train, 
Which on its pleasures stamps perpetual pain, 
And makes the wise man loser by his gain. 

[Exit 



SCENE 1. 



iESOP, 



375 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 



JEsop. 



Enter iEsor 
Who waits there ? 



Enter Servanc. 
If there be anybody that has business with me, let 
'em in. 

Serv. Yes, sir. 



lExit. 



Enter Quaint, who stands at a distance, making a great 
many fawning bows. 

JEsop. Well, friend, who are you ? 

Quaint. My name's Quaint, sir, the profoundest 
of all your honour's humble servants, 

JEsop. And what may your business be with 
me, sir ? 

Quaint. My business, sir, with every man, is 
first of all to do him service. 

JEsop. And your next is, I suppose, to be paid 
for't twice as much as 'tis worth. 

Quaint. Your honour's most obedient, humble 
servant. 

JEsop. Well, sir, but upon what account am I 
going to be obliged to you ? 

Quaint. Sir, I'm a genealogist. 

JEsop. A genealogist ! 

Quaint. At your service, sir. 

JEsop. So, sir. 

Quaint. Sir, I am informed from common fame, 
as well as from some little private familiar intelli- 
gence, that your wisdom is entering into treaty 
with the primum mobile of good and evil, a fine 
lady. I have travelled, sir ; I have read, sir ; I 
have considered, sir ; and I find, sir, that the 
nature of a fine lady is to be — a fine lady, sir ; a 
fine lady's a fine lady, sir, all the world over ; she 
loves a fine house, fine furniture, fine coaches, fine 
liveries, fine petticoats, fine smocks ; and if she 
stops there — she's a fine lady indeed, sir. But to 
come to my point, It being the Lydian custom, 
that the fair bride should be presented on her wed- 
ding-day with something that may signify the merit 
and the worth of her dread lord and master, I 
thought the noble iEsop's pedigree might be the 
welcomest gift that he could offer. If his honour 
be of the same opinion — I'll speak a bold word ; 
there's ne'er a herald in all Asia shall put better 
blood in his veins, than — sir, your humble servant, 
Jacob Quaint. 

JEsop. Dost thou then know my father, friend? 
for I protest to thee I am a stranger to him. 

Quaint. Your father, sir, ha! ha ! I know every 
man's father, sir, and every man's grandfather, 
and every man's great-grandfather. Why, sir, 
I'm a herald by nature ; my mother was a Welch- 
woman. 

JEsop. A Welchwoman ! Prithee of what coun- 
try's that? 

Quaint. That, sir, is a country in the world's 
backside, where every man is born a gentleman, 
and a genealogist. Sir, I could tell my mother's 
pedigree before I could speak plain ; which, to 
show you the depth of my art, and the strength of 
my memory, I'll trundle you down in an instant. 



— Noah had three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japhet, 
Shem — 

JEsop. Hold, I conjure thee, in the name of all 
thy ancestors ! 

Quaint. Sir, I could take it higher but I begin 
at Noah for brevity's sake. 

JEsop. No more on't, I entreat thee. 

Quaint. Your honour's impatient, perhaps, to 
hear your own descent. A word to the wise is 
enough. Hem, hem : Solomon, the wise king of 
Judea — 

JEsop. Hold once more ! 

Quaint. Ha ! ha ! your honour's modest, but — 
Solomon, the wise king of Judea — 

JEsop. Was my ancestor, was he not ? 

Quaint. He was, my lord, which no one sure 
can doubt, who observes how much of prince there 
hangs about you. 

JEsop. What ! is't in my mien ? 

Quaint. You have something — wondrous noble 
in your air. 

JEsop. Personable too ; view me well. 

Quaint. N — not tall ; but majestic. 

JEsop. My shape. 

Quaint. A world of symmetry in it. 

JEsop. The lump upon my back. 

Quaint. N — not regular ; but agreeable. 

JEsop. Now by my honesty thou art a villain, 
herald. But flattery's a thrust I never fail to parry. 
'Tis a pass thou shouldst reserve for young fencers; 
with feints like those they're to be hit : I do not 
doubt but thou hast found it so ; hast not ? 

Quaint. I must confess, sir, I have sometimes 
made 'em bleed by't. But I hope your honour 
will please to excuse me, since, to speak the truth, 
I get my bread by't, and maintain my wife and 
children : and industry, you know, sir, is a com- 
mendable thing. Besides, sir, I have debated the 
business a little with my conscience ; for I'm like 
the rest of my neighbours, I'd willingly get money, 
and be saved too, if the thing may be done upon 
any reasonable terms : and so, sir, I say, to quiet 
my conscience, I have found out at last that flat- 
tery is a duty. 

JEsop. A duty ! 

Quaint. Ay, sir, a duty : for the duty of all men 
is to make one another pass their time as pleasantly 
as they can. Now, sir, here's a young lord, who 
has a great deal of land, a great deal of title, a 
great deal of meat, a greal deal of noise, a great 
many servants, and a great many diseases. I find 
him very dull, very restless, tired with ease, cloyed 
with plenty, a burden to himself, and a plague to 
his family. I begin to flatter : be springs off of the 
couch ; turns himself round in the glass ; finds all 
I say true ; cuts a caper a yard high ; his biood 
trickles round in his veins ; his heart's as light as 
his heels ; and before I leave him — his purse is as 
empty as his head. So we both are content ; for 
we part much happier than we met. 

JEsop. Admirable rogue ! what dost thou think 
of murder 
And of rape ? Are not they duties too ? 
Wer't not for such vile fawning things as thou art, 



(376 



JESOP. 



Young nobles would not long be what they are : 
They'd grow ashamed of luxury and ease, 
And rouse up the old spirit of their fathers ; 
Leave the pursuit of a poor frighten' d hare, 
And make their foes to tremble in her stead ; 
Furnish their heads with sciences and arts, 
And fill their hearts with honour, truth, and 

friendship ; 
Be generous to some, and just to all ; 
Drive home their creditors with bags of gold, 
Instead of chasing 'em with swords and staves ; 
Be faithful to their king and country both, 
And stab the offerer of a bribe from either ; 
Blush even at a wandering thought of vice, 
And boldly own they durst be friends to virtue ; 
Tremble at nothing but the frowns of Heaven, 
And be no more ashamed of him that made 'em. 

Quaint. {Aside.'] If I stand to hear this crump 
preach a little longer, I shall be fool enough per- 
haps to be bubbled out of my livelihood, and so 
lose a bird in the hand for two in the bush. — 
[Aloud.] Sir, since I have not been able to bring 
you to a good opinion of yourself, 'tis very probable 
I shall scarce prevail with you to have one of me. 
But if you please to do me the favour to forget me, 
I shall ever acknowledge myself — sir, your most 
obedient, faithful, humble servant. {.Going. 

Mso.p. Hold ; if I let thee go, and give thee 
nothing, thou'lt be apt to grumble at me ; and 
therefore — Who waits there ? 

Enter Servant. 

Quaint. [Aside.] I don't like his looks, by Gad ! 

Msop. I'll present thee with a token of my love. 

Quaint. A — another time, sir, will do as well. 

Msop. No ; T love to be out of debt, though 'tis 
being out of the fashion. — [To Servant.] So, d'ye 
year? give this honest gentleman half a score good 
strokes on the back with a cudgel. 

Quaint. By no means in the world, sir. 

Msop. Indeed, sir, you shall take 'em. 

Quaint. Sir, I don't merit half your bounty. 

Msop. O 'tis but a trifle ! 

Quaint. Your generosity makes me blush. 

{Looking about to make his escape. 

Msop. That's your modesty, sir. 

Quaint. Sir, you are pleased to compliment. 
But a — twenty pedigrees for a clear coast ! 

{Running off, the Servant after him. 

Msop. Wait upon him down stairs, fellow. — 
I'd do't myself, were I but nimble enough ; but he 
makes haste to avoid ceremony. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Serv. Sir, here's a lady in great haste desires to 
speak with you. 

Msop. Let her come in. {Exit Servant. 

Enter Aminta, weeping. 

Amin. O sir, if you don't help me, I'm undone! 

Msop. What, what's the matter, lady ? 

Amin. My daughter, sir, my daughter's run 
away with a filthy fellow. 

JEsop. A slippery trick indeed ! 

Amin. For Heaven's sake, sir, send immedi- 
ately to pursue 'em, and seize 'em. But 'tis in 
vain, 'twill be too late, 'twill be too late ! I'll 
warrant this very moment they are got together 
in a room with a couch in't. All's gone, all's 



gone ! though 'twere made of gold 'tis lost. Oh, 
my honour ! my honour 1 A forward girl she was 
always ; I saw it in her eyes the very day of her 
birth. 

Msop. That indeed was early ; but how do you 
know she's gone with a fellow ? 

Amin. I have e'en her own insolent handwriting 
for't, sir ; take but the pains to read what a letter 
she has left me. 

Msop. [Reads.] I love, and am beloved, and 
that's the reason I run away. — Short, but signi- 
ficant ! — I'm sure there's nobody knows better 
than your ladyship what allowances are to be made 
to flesh and blood ; I therefore hope this from your 
justice, that what you have done three times your- 
self, you'll pardon once in your daughter. — The 
dickens ! 

Amin. Now, sir, what do you think of the 
business ? 

Msop. Why truly, lady, I think it one of the 
most natural businesses I have met with a great 
while. I'll tell you a story. 

A crab-fish once her daughter told, 

(In terms that savour'd much of scold) 

She could not bear to see her go, 

Sidle, sidle, to and fro ; 

" The devil's in the wench!" quoth she, 

" When so much money has been paid, 

To polish you like me ; 

It makes me almost mad to see 

Y'are still so awkward, an ungainly jade." 

Her daughter smiled, and look'd askew 

She answer'd (for to give her her due) 

Pertly, as most folks' daughters do : 

u Madam, your ladyship," quoth she, 

" Is pleased to blame in me 

What, on inquiry, you may find, 

Admits a passable excuse, 

From a proverb much in use, 

That ' cat will after kind.' " 

Amin. Sir, I took you to be a man better bred, 
than to liken a lady to a crab-fish. 

Msop. What I want in good-breeding, lady, I 
have in truth and honesty : as what you have 
wanted in virtue, you have had in a good face. 

Amin. Have had, sir ! 'what I have had, I have 
still ; and shall have a great while, I hope. I'm 
no grandmother, sir. 

Msop. But in a fair way for't, madam. 

Amin. Thanks to my daughter's forwardness 
then, not my years. I'd have you to know, sir, I 
have never a wrinkle in my face. A young pert 
slut ! who'd think she should know so much at 
her age ? 

Msop. Good masters make quick scholars, 
lady ; she has learned her exercise from you. 

Amin. But where's the remedy, sir ? 

Msop. In trying if a good example will reclaim 
her, as an ill one has debauched her. Live private, 
and avoid scandal. 

Amin. Never speak it ; I can no more retire, 
than I can go to church twice of a Sunday. 

Msop. What ! your youthful blood boils in your 
veins, I'll warrant. 

Amin. I have warmth enough to endure the air, 
old gentleman. I need not shut myself up in a 
house these twenty years. 

Msop. [Aside.] She takes a long lease of 
lewdness : she'll be an admirable tenant to lust. 



SCENE II. 



JESOP. 



37^ 



Amin. [ Walking hastily to and fro.~\ People 
think when a woman is turned forty, she's old 
enough to turn out of the world : but I say, when 
a woman is turned forty, she's old enough to have 
more wit. The most can be said is, her face is 
the worse for wearing : I'll answer for all the 
rest of her fabric. The men would be to be 
pitied, by my troth would they, if we should quit 
the stage, and leave 'em nothing but a parcel of 
young pert sluts, that neither know how to speak 
sense, nor keep themselves clean. But don't let 
'em fear, we a'nt going yet. — [iEsop stares upon 
her, and as she turns from, him runs off the 
stage. ] How now ! What, left alone ! An un- 
mannerly piece of deformity ! Methinks he might 
have had sense enough to have made love to me. 
But I have found men strangely dull for these last 
ten or twelve years. Sure they'll mend in time, 
or the world won't be worth living in. 
For let philosophers say all they can, 
The source of woman's joys is placed in man. 

[Exit. 



SCENE II.— The same. 

Enter Learchus and Euphronia, Doris following at a 
distance. 

Lear. [ To Euphronia.] I must tell you, mis- 
tress, I'm too mild with you ; parents should never 
entreat their children, nor will I hereafter. There- 
fore, in a word, let Oronces be loved, let iEsop be 
hated ; let one be a peacock, let t'other be a bat. 
I'm father, you are daughter ; I command, and 
you shall obey. 

Euph. I never yet did otherwise ; nor shall I 
now, sir ; but pray let reason guide you. 

Lear. So it does. But 'tis my own, not yours, 
hussy. 

Dor. Ah ! — Well, I'll say no more ; but were I 
in her place, by the mass I'd have a tug for't ! 

L>ear. Demon, born to distract me ! Whence 
art thou, in the name of fire and brimstone ? Have 
not I satisfied thee ? have not I paid thee what's 
thy due ? and have not I turned thee out of doors, 
with orders never more to stride my threshold, 
ha ? Answer, abominable spirit ! what is't that 
makes thee haunt me ? 

Dor. A foolish passion, to do you good in spite 
of your teeth : pox on me for my zeal ! I say. 

Lear. And pox on thee, and thy zeal too ! I say. 

Dor. Now if it were not for her sake more than 
for yours, I'd leave all to your own management, 
to be revenged of you. But rather than I'll see 
that sweet thing sacrificed — I'll play the devil in 
your house. 

Lear. Patience, I summon thee to my aid ! 

Dor. Passion, I defy thee ! to the last drop of 
my blood I'll maintain my ground. What have you 
to charge me with ? speak. I love your child 
better than you do, and you can't bear that, ha ? 
is't not so ? Nay, it's well y'are ashamed on't ; 
there's some sign of grace still. Look you, sir, in 
few words, you'll make me mad ; and 'twere 
enough to make anybody mad (who has brains 
enough to be so) to see so much virtue ship- 
wrecked at the very port. The world never saw 
a virgin better qualified ; so witty, so discreet, so 
modest, so chaste ; in a word, I brought her up 
myself, and 'twould be the death of me to see so 



virtuous a maid become a lewd wife ; which is the 
usual effect of parents' pride and covetousness. 

Lear. How, strumpet ! would anything be 
able to debauch my daughter ? 

Dor. Your daughter ! yes your daughter, and 
myself into the bargain : a woman's but a woman; 
and I'll lay a hundred pound on nature's side. 
Come, sir, few words despatch business. Let 
who will be the wife of JEsop, she's a fool, or he's 
a cuckold. But you'll never have a true notion 
of this matter till you suppose yourself in your 
daughter's place. As thus : — You are a pretty, 
soft, warm, wishing young lady: I'm a straight, 
proper, handsome, vigorous, young fellow. You 
have a peevish, positive, covetous, old father, and 
he forces you to marry a little, lean, crooked, dry, 
sapless husband. This husband's gone abroad, 
you are left at home. I make you a visit ; find 
you all alone ; the servant pulls to the door ; the 
devil comes in at the window. I begin to wheedle, 
you begin to melt ; you like my person, and there- 
fore believe all I say ; so first I make you an 
atheist, and then I make you a whore. Thus the 
world goes, sir. 

Lear. Pernicious pestilence ! Has thy eternal 
tongue run down its larum yet ? 

Dor. Yes. 

Lear. Then get out of my house, abomination ! 

Dor. I'll not stir a foot. 

Lear. Who waits there ? Bring me my great 
stick. 

Dor. Bring you a stick ! bring you a head-piece ; 
that you'd call for, if you knew your own wants. 

Lear. Death and furies, the devil, and so forth ; 
I shall run distracted ! 

Euph. Pray, sir, don't be so angry at her. I'm 
sure she means well, though she may have an odd 
way of expressing herself. 

Lear. What, you like her meaning ? who doubts 
it, offspring of Venus ! But I'll make you stay 
your stomach with meat of my choosing, you 
liquorish young baggage you ! In a word, JEsop' s 
the man ; and to-morrow he shall be your lord 
and master. But since he can't be satisfied unless 
he has your heart, as well as all the rest of your 
trumpery, let me see you receive him in such a 
manner that he may think himself your choice a, 
well as mine ; 'twill make him esteem your judg- 
ment : for we usually guess at other people's 
understandings, by their approving our actions, 
and liking our faces. See here the great man 
comes ! — [To Doris.] Follow me, Insolence ! and 
leave 'em to express their passion to each other. — 
[To Euphronia.] Remember my last word to 
you is, obey. 

Dor. [Aside to Euphronia.] And remembet 
my last advice to you is, rebel. 

[Exit Learchus. Doris following him. 

Euph. Alas ! I'm good-natured ; the last 
thing that's said to me usually leaves the deepest 
impression. 

Enter JEsop ; they stand some time without speaking. 

JEsop. They say, that lovers, for want of words, 
have eyes to speak with, I'm afraid you do not 
understand the language of mine, since yours I 
find will make no answer to 'em. But I must 
tell you, lady, 

There is a numerous train of youthful virgins, 
That are endow'd with wealth and beauty too, 



378 



jESOP. 



Who yet have thought it worth their pains and care 
To point their darts at iEsop's homely breast ; 
Whilst you so much contemn what they pursue, 
That a young senseless fop's preferr'd before me. 

Euph. Did you but know that fop you dare to 
term so, 
His very looks would fright you into nothing. 

JEsop. A very bauble ! 

Euph. How ! 

JEsop. A butterfly ! 

Euph. I can't bear it ! 

JEsop. A parroquet can prattle and look gaudy. 

Euph. It may be so ; but let me paint him and 
you in your proper colours, I'll do it exactly, and 
you shall judge which I ought to choose. 

JEsop. No, hold ! I'm naturally not over-curious; 
besides, 'tis pride makes people have their pictures 
drawn. 

Euph. Upon my word, sir, you may have yours 
taken a hundred times before anybody will believe 
'tis done upon that account. 

JEsop. [Aside.'] Howsevere she is upon me ! — 
[Aloud.~] You are resolved then to persist, and be 
fond of your feather ; sigh for a periwig, and die 
for a cravat-string ? 

Euph. Methinks, sir, you might treat with more 
What I've thought fit to own I value ; [respect 
Your affronts to him are doubly such to me. 
If you continue your provoking language, 
You must expect my tongue will sally too ; 
And if you are as wise as some would make you, 
You can't but know I should have theme enough. 

JEsop. But is it possible you can love so much 
as you pretend ? 

Euph. Why, do you question it ? 

JEsop. Because nobody loves so much as they 
pretend. But hark you, young lady ! marriage is 
to last a long, long time ; 
And where one couple bless the sacred knot, 
A train of wretches curse the institution. 
You're in an age where hearts are young and tender, 
A pleasing object gets admittance soon. 
But since to marriage 

There is annex'd this dreadful word, For Ever, 
The following example ought to move you. 

A peacock once of splendid show, 

Gay, gaudy, foppish, vain — a beau, 

Attack'd a fond young pheasant's heart 

With such success, 

He pleased her, though he made her smart ; 

He pierced her with so much address, 

She smiled the moment that he fix'd his dart. 

A cuckoo in a neighbouring tree, 

Rich, honest, ugly, old — like me, 

Loved her as he loved his life : 

No pamper'd priest e'er studied more 

To make a virtuous nun a whore, 

Than he to get her for his wife. 

But all his offers still were vain, 

His limbs were weak, his face was plain ; 

Beauty, youth, and vigour weigh'd 

With the warm desiring maid : 



No bird, she cried, would serve her turn, 
But what could quench as well as burn, 
She'd have a young gallant ; so one she had. 
But ere a month was come and gone, 
The bride began to change her tone, 
She found a young gallant was an inconstant one. 
She wander' d to a neighbouring grove, 
Where after musing long on love, 
She told her confidant, she found 
When for one's life one must be bound, 
(Though youth indeed was a delicious bait,) 
An aged husband, rich, though plain, 
Would give a slavish wife less pain ; 
And what was more, was sooner slain, 
Which was a thing of weight. 
Behold, young lady, here, the cuckoo of the fable : 
I am deform'd, 'tis true, yet I have found 
The means to make a figure amongst men, 
That well has recompensed the wrongs of Nature. 
My rival's beauty promises you much ; 
Perhaps my homely form might yield you more ; 
At least consider on't, 'tis worth your thought. 
Euph. I must confess my fortune would be 
greater ; 
But what's a fortune to a heart like mine ? 
'Tis true, I'm but a young philosopher, 
Yet in that little space my glass has run, 
I've spent some time in search of happiness : 
The fond pursuit I soon observed of riches, 
Inclined me to inquire into their worth ; 
I found their value was not in themselves, 
But in their power to grant what we could ask. 
I then proceeded to my own desires, 
To know what state of life would suit with them : 
I found 'em moderate in their demands, 
They neither ask'd for title, state, or power ; 
They slighted the aspiring post of envy : 
'Tis true, they trembled at the name contempt ; 
A general esteem was all they wish'd : 
And that I did not doubt might be obtain'd, 
If furnish' d but with virtue and good-nature ; 
My fortune proved sufficient to afford me 
Conveniences of life, and independence. 
This, sir, was the result of my inquiry ; 
And by this scheme of happiness I build, 
When I prefer the man I ,love to you. 

JEsop. How wise, how witty, and how cleanly, 

young women grow, as soon as ever they are in lo* e ! 

Euph. How foppish, how impertinent, and how 

nauseous are old men, when they pretend to be so 

too! 

JEsop. How pert is youth ! 
Euph. How dull is age ! 
JEsop. Why so sharp, young lady ? 
Euph. Why so blunt, old gentleman ? 
JEsop. 'Tis enough ; I'll to your father, I know 
how to deal with him, though I don't know how to 
deal with you. Before to-morrow noon, damsel, 
wife shall be written on your brow. \_Exit. 

Euph. Then before to-morrow night, statesman, 
husband shall be stamped upon your forehead. 

\Exit. 



SCENE II. 



iESOP. 



379 



ACT IV. 



SCENE 1..—A Room hi Learchtts's House. 
Enter Oronces and Doris. 

Dor. Patience, I beseech you. 

Oron. Patience ! What, and see that lovely 
creature thrown into the arms of that pedantic 
monster : 'sdeath, I'd rather see the world reduced 
to atoms, mankind turned into crawfish, and myself 
an old woman ! 

Dor. So you think an old woman a very unfor- 
tunate thing, I find ; but you are mistaken, sir ; 
she may plague other folks, but she's as entertain- 
ing to herself as any one part of the creation. 

Oron. [Walking to andfro.~\ She's the devil ! 
— and I'm one of the damned, I think ! But I'll 
make somebody howl for't, I will so'. 

Dor. You'll e'en do as all the young fellows in 
the town do, spoil your own sport : ah ! — had 
young men's shoulders but old courtiers' headsupon 
'em, what a delicious time would they have on't ! 
For shame be wise ; for your mistress' sake at 
least use some caution. 

Oron. For her sake I'll respect, even like a 
deity, her father. He shall strike me, he shall 
tread upon me, and find me humbler even than 
a crawling worm, for I'll not turn again ; but for 
TEsop, that unfinished lump, that chaos of humanity, 
I'll use him, — nay, expect it, for I'll do't — the first 
moment that I see him, I'll — 

Dor. Not challenge him, I hope. — 'Twould be a 
pretty sight truly, to see TEsop drawn up in 
battalia : fy, for shame ! be wise once in your life ; 
think of gaining time, by putting off the marriage 
for a day or two, and not of waging war with 
Pigmy. Yonder's the old gentleman walking 
by himself in the gallery ; go and wheedle him, you 
know his weak side ; he's good-natured in the bot- 
tom. Stir up his old fatherly bowels a little, I'll 
warrant you'll move him at last : go, get you gone, 
and play your part discreetly. 

Oron. Well, I'll try ; but if words won't do 
with one, blows shall with t'other ; by heavens 
they shall. \_Exit. 

Dor. Nay, I reckon we shall have rare work on't 
by and by. Shield us, kind Heaven ! what things 
are men in love ! Now they are stocks and stones ; 
then they are fire and quicksilver ; first whining 
and crying, then swearing and damning ; this mo- 
ment they are in love, and next moment they are 
out of love. Ah ! could we but live without 'em — 
but it's in vain to think on't. [Exit. 



SCENE II — The same. 

Enter ^Esop at one side of the stage, Mrs. Forgewjll at 
the other. 

Mrs. Forge. Sir, I'm your most devoted servant. 
What I say is no compliment, I do assure you, 

JEsop. Madam, as far as you are really mine, 
I believe I may venture to assure you I am yours. 

Mrs. Forge. I suppose, sir, ycu know that I'm 
a widow. 



Alsop. Madam, I don't so much as know you 
are a woman. 

Mrs. Forge. O surprising ! why, I thought the 
whole town had known it. Sir, I have been a 
widow this twelvemonth. 

Alsop. If a body may guess at your heart by 
your petticoat, lady, you don't design to be so a 
twelvemonth more. 

Mrs. Forge. O bless me ! not a twelvemonth ! 
why, my husband has left me four squalling brats. 
Besides, sir, I'm undone. 

Msop. You seem as cheerful an undone lady as 
I have met with. 

Mrs. Forge. Alas, sir, I have too great a spirit 
ever to let afflictions spoil my face. Sir, I'll tell 
you my condition ; and that will lead me to my 
business with you. Sir, my husband was a scrive- 
ner. 

JEsop. The deuse he was ! I thought he had 
been a count at least. 

Mrs. Forge. Sir, 'tis not the first time I have 
been taken for a countess ; my mother used to say, 
as 1 lay in my cradle, I had the air of a woman of 
quality ; and, truly, I have always lived like such. 
My husband, indeed, had something sneaking in 
him, (as most husbands have, you know, sir,) but 
from the moment I set foot in his house, bless me, 
what a change was there ! His pewter was turned 
into silver, his goloshoes into a glass coach, and his 
little travelling mare into a pair of Flanders horses. 
Instead of a greasy cookmaid, to wait at table, I 
had four tall footmen in clean linen ; all things 
beeame new and fashionable, and nothing looked 
awkward in my family. My furniture was the 
wonler of my neighbourhood, and my clothes the 
admiration of the whole town ; I had a necklace 
that was envied by the queen, and a pair of pend- 
ants that set a duchess a-crying. In a word, I 
saw nothing I liked but I bought it ; and my hus- 
band, good man, durst ne'er refuse paying for't. 
Thus I lived, and I flourished, till he sickened and 
died ; but, ere he was cold in his grave, his credi- 
tors plundered my house. But what pity it was 
to see fellows with dirty shoes come into my best 
rooms, and touch my hangings with their filthy 
fingers ! You won't blame me, sir, if, with all my 
courage, I weep at this sensible part of my misfor- 
tune. 

Msop. A very sad story truly ! 

Mrs. Forge. But now, sir, to my business. 
Having been informed this morning that the king 
has appointed a great sum of money for the mar- 
riage of young women who have lived well and are 
fallen to decay, I am come to acquaint you I have 
two strapping daughters just fit for the matter, 
and to desire you'll help 'em to portions out of 
the king's bounty; that they mayn't whine and 
pine, and be eaten up with the green-sickness, as 
half the young women in the town are, or would 
be, if there were not more helps for a disease than 
one. This, sir, is my business. 

Msop. And this, madam, is my answer : — 
A crawling toad, all speckled o'er, 
Vain, gaudy, painted, patch'd — a whore, 



380 



JESOP. 



Seeing a well-fed ox hard by, 

Regards him with an envious eye, 

And (as the poets tell) 

" Ye gods, I cannot bear't ! " quoth she, 

" I'll burst, or be as big as he ! " 

And so began to swell. 

Her friends and kindred round her came, 

They show'd her she was much to blame, 

The thing was out of reach. 

She told 'em they were busy folk, 

And when her husband would have spoke, 

She bid him kiss her br — h. 

With that they all e'en gave her o'er, 

And she persisted as before, 

Till, with a deal of strife, 

She s welFd at last so much her spleen, 

She burst like one that we have seen, 

Who was a scrivener's wife. 

This, widow, I take to be your case, and that of a 
great many others ; for this is an age where most 
people get falls by clambering too high, to reach 
at what they should not do. The shoemaker's 
wife reduces her husband to a cobbler, by endea- 
vouring to be as spruce as the tailor's ; the tailor's 
brings hers to a botcher, by going as fine as the 
mercer's ; the mercer's lowers hers to a foreman, 
by perking up to the merchant's ; the merchant's 
wears hers to a broker, by strutting up to quality ; 
and quality bring theirs to nothing, by striving to 
outdo one another. If women were humbler, men 
would be honester. Pride brings want, want makes 
rogues, rogues come to be hanged, and the devil 
alone's the gainer. Go your ways home, woman ; 
and, as your husband maintained you by his 
pen, maintain yourself by your needle ; put your 
great girls to service, employment will keep 'em 
honest ; much work, and plain diet, will cure the 
green-sickness as well as a husband. 

Mrs. Forge. Why, you pitiful pigmy, preach- 
ing, canting, pickthank ! you little, sorry, crooked, 
dry, withered eunuch ! do you know that — 

JEsop. I know that I'm so deformed you han't 
wit enough to describe me ; but I have this good 
quality, that a foolish woman can never make me 
angry. 

Mrs. Forge. Can't she so ! I'll try that, I will. 

[She falls upon him, holds his hands, and boxes his ears. 

JEsop. Help ! help ! help ! 

Enter Servants. She runs off, they after her. 
Nay, e'en let her go — let her go — don't bring her 
back again. I'm for making a bridge of gold for 
my enemy to retreat upon. — I'm quite out of breath. 
— A terrible woman, I protest 1 

Enter Sir Polidorus Hogstye drunk, in a hunting dress, 
with a Huntsman, Groom, Falconer, and other Servants; 
one leading a couple of hounds, another greyhounds, a 
third a spaniel, a fourth a gun upon his shoulder, the 
Falconer a hawk upon his fist, fyc. 

Sir Pol. Haux '. Haux ! Haux ! Haux ! Haux ! 
Joular, there, boy ! Joular ! Joular! Tinker ! Ped- 
lar ! Miss ! Miss ! Miss ! Miss I Miss ! — Blood 
and oons ! — Oh, there he is ; that must be he, I 
have seen his picture. — [Heeling upon JEsop.] 
Sir — if your name's iEsop — I'm your humble 
(Servant. 

JEsop. Sir, my name is iEsop, at your service. 

Sir Pol. Why, then, sir — compliments being 
passed on both sides, with your leave — we'll pro- 



ceed to business. — Sir, I'm by profession — a gen- 
tleman of — three thousand pounds a — year, sir. I 
keep a good pack of hounds, and a good stable of 
horses. — [To his Groom.] How many horses have 
I, sirrah ? — Sir, this is my groom. 

[Presenting him to JEsop. 

Groom. Your worship has six coach-horses (cut 
and long-tail,) two runners, half-a-dozen hunters, 
four breeding mares, and two blind stallions, 
besides pads, routs, and dog-horses. 

Sir Pol. Look you there, sir, I scorn to tell a 
lie. He that questions my honour — he's a son of 
a whore. But to business. — Having heard, sir, 
that you were come to this town, I have taken the 
pains to come hither too, though I had a great 
deal of business upon my hands, for I have ap- 
pointed three justices of the peace to hunt with 
'em this morning — and be drunk with 'em in the 
afternoon. But the main chance must be looked 
to — and that's this — I desire, sir, you'll tell the 
king from me — I don't like these taxes — in one 
word as well as in twenty — I don't like these taxes. 

JEsop. Pray, sir, how high may you be taxed ? 

Sir Pol. How high may I be taxed, sir ! — Why, 
I may be taxed, sir, — four shillings in the pound, 
sir ; one-half I pay in money — and t'other half I 
pay in perjury, sir — Hey, Joular ! Joular ! Joular ! 
naux ! haux ! haux ! haux ! haux ! whoo ! hoo ! — 
Here's the best hound-bitch in Europe. Zoons is 
she. And I had rather kiss her than kiss my wife 
— rot me if I had not. But, sir, I don't like these 
taxes. 

JEsop. Why, how would you have the war 
carried on ? 

Sir Pol. War carried on, sir ! — Why, I had 
rather have no war carried on at all, sir, than pay 
taxes. I don't desire to be ruined, sir. 

JEsop. Why you say you have three thousand 
pounds a-year. 

Sir Pol. And so I have, sir — Lettacre ! — Sir, 
this is my steward. — How much land have I, Lett- 
acre ? 

Lettacre. Your worship has three thausand 
paxinds a-year, as good lond as any's in the caunty ; 
and two thausand paunds worth of wood to cut 
dawne at your worship's pleasure, and put the 
money in your pocket. 

Sir Pol. Look you there, sir, wnat have you to 
say to that * 

JEsop. I have to say, sir, that you may pay your 
taxes in money, instead of perjury, and still have 
a better revenue than I'm afraid you deserve. 
What service do you do your king, sir ? 

Sir Pol. None at all, sir : I'm above it. 

JEsop. What service may you do your country, 
pray ? 

Sir Pol. I'm justice of the peace— and captain of 
the militia. 

JEsop. Of what use are you to your kindred ? 

Sir Pol. I'm the head of the family, and have 
all the estate. 

JEsop. What good do you do your neighbours? 

Sir Pol. I give 'em their bellies full of beef every 
time they come to see me ; and make 'em so drunk, 
they spew it up again before they go away. 

JEsop. How do you use your tenants ? 

Sir Pol. Why, I screw up their rents till they 
break and run away ; and if I catch 'em again, I 
let 'em rot in a jail. 

JEsop. How do you treat your wife ? 



SCENE II. 



ffiSOY. 



381 



Sir Pol. I treat her all day with ill-nature and to- 
bacco, and all night with snoring and a dirty shirt. 

Msop. How do you breed your children ? 

Sir Pol. I breed my eldest son — a fool ; my 
youngest breed themselves, and my daughters — 
have no breeding at all. 

JEsop. 'Tis very well, sir : I shall be sure to 
speak to the king of you ; or if you think fit to 
remonstrate to him, by way of petition or address, 
how reasonable it may be to let men of your impor- 
tance go scot-free, in the time of a necessary war, 
I'll deliver it in council, and speak to it as I ought. 

Sir Pol. Why, sir, I don't disapprove your 
advice ; but my clerk is not here, and I can't spell 
well. 

JEsop. You may get it writ at your leisure, and 
send it me. But because you are not much used 
to draw up addresses perhaps, I'll tell you in gene- 
ral what kind of one this ought to be. 

May it please your Majesty — You'll excuse me 
if I don't know your name and title. 

Sir Pol. Sir Polidorus Hogstye, of Beast-Hall, 
in Swine-county. 

JEsop. Very well. 

May it please your Majesty : 

Polidorus Hogstye, of Beast-Hall, 
in Swine -county, most humbly represents, that he 
hates to pay taxes, the dreadful consequences of 
'em being inevitably these, that he must retrench 
two dishes in ten, where not above six of 'em are 
designed for gluttony. 

Four bottles out of twenty ; where not above 
fifteen of 'em are for drunkenness. 

Six horses out of thirty ; of which not above 
twe7ity are kept for state. 

And four servants out of a score; where one 
half do nothing but make work for t'other. 

To this deplorable condition must your important 
subject be reduced, or forced to cut down his timber, 
which he would willingly preserve against an ill 
run at dice. 

And as to the necessity of the war for the secu- 
rity of the kingdom, he neither knows nor cares 
whether it be necessary or not. 

He concludes with his prayers for your majesty' s 
life, upon condition you will protect him and his 
fox-hounds at Beast-Hall without e'er a penny of 
money. 
This, sir, I suppose, is much what you would be at. 

Sir Pol. Exactly, sir ; I'll be sure to have one 
drawn up to the selfsame purpose ; and next fox- 
hunting I'll engage half the company shall set their 
hands to't. Sir, I am your — most devoted ser- 
vant ; and if you please to let me see you at Beast- 
Hall, here's my huntsman, Houndsfoot, will show 
you a fox shall lead you through so many hedges 
and briars, you shall have no more clothes on your 
back in half an hour's time — than you had — in the 
womb of your mother. — Haux ! haux ! haux ! &c. 
[Exit shouting, followed by his attendants. 

Msop. O tempora ! O mores ! 

Enter Mr. Fruitful and Mrs. Fruitful. 

Mr. Fruit. Heavens preserve the noble iEsop, 
grant him long life and happy days ! 

Mrs. Fruit. And send him a fruitful wife, with 
a hopeful issue I 

Msop. And what is it I'm to do for you, good 
people, to make you amends for all these friendly 
wishes ? 



Mr. Fruit. Sir, here's myself and my wife — 

Mrs. Fruit. Sir, here's I and my husband — [To 
Mr. Fruitful.] Let me speak in my turn, good- 
man Forward. — [To iEsop.] Sir, here's I and my 
husband, I say, think we have as good pretensions 
to the king's favour as ever a lord in the land. 

Msop. If you have no better than some lords in 
the land. I hope you won't expect much for your 
service. 

Mr. Fruit. An't please you, you shall be judge 
yourself. 

Mrs. Fruit. That's as he gives sentence, Mr. 
Littlewit ; who gave you power to come to a refer- 
ence ? If he does not do us right, the king him- 
self shall ; what's to be done here ! — [To iEsop.] 
Sir, I'm forced to correct my husband a little ; poor 
man, he is not used to court-business ; but to give 
him his due, he's ready enough at some things. 
Sir, I have had twenty fine children by him ; fifteen 
of 'em are alive, and alive like to be ; five tall 
daughters are wedded and bedded, and ten proper 
sons serve their king and their country. 

Msop. A goodly company, upon my word ! 

Mrs. Fruit. Would all men take as much pains 
for the peopling the kingdom, we might tuck up 
our aprons, and cry a fig for our enemies ! but we 
have such a parcel of drones amongst us. — Hold 
up your head, husband. — He's a little out of coun- 
tenance, sir, because I chid him ; but the man's a 
very good man at the bottom. But to come to my 
business, sir ; I hope his majesty will think it rea- 
sonable to allow me something for the service I 
have done him ; 'tis pity but labour should be 
encouraged, especially when what one has done, 
one has done't with a good-will. 

Msop. What profession are you of, good people? 

Mrs. Fruit. My husband's an innkeeper, sir ; 
he bears the name, but I govern the house. 

Msop. And what posts are your sons in, in the 
service ? 

Mrs. Fruit. Sir, there are four monks. 

Mr. Fruit. Three attorneys. 

Mrs. Fruit. Two scriveners. 

Mr. Fruit. And an exciseman. 

Msop. The deuse o' the service ! why, I thought 
they had been all in the army. 

Mrs. Fruit. Not one, sir. 

Msop. No, so it seems, by my troth ! Ten sons 
that serve their country, quotha ! monks, attor- 
neys, scriveners, and excisemen, serve their country 
with a vengeance. You deserve to be rewarded, 
truly ; you deserve to be hanged, you wicked people 
you ! Get you gone out of my sight : I never was 
so angry in my life. [Exit. 

Mr. Fruit. So ; who's in the right now, you or 
I ? I told you what would come on't ; you must 
be always a-breeding, and breeding, and the king 
would take care of 'em, and the queen would take 
care of 'em : and always some pretence or other 
there was. But now we have got a great kennel of 
whelps, and the devil will take care of 'em, for 
aught I see. For your sons are all rogues, and 
your daughters are all whores ; you know they are. 

Mrs. Fruit. What, you are a grudging of your 
pains now, you lazy, sluggish, phlegmatic drone ! 
You have a mind to die of a lethargy, have you ? 
but I'll raise your spirits for you, I will so. Get 
you gone home, go ; go home, you idle sot, you. 
I'll raise your spirits for you ! 

[Exit, pushing Mr. Fruitful before her. 



382 



MSOl> 



Re-enter JEsop. 

Msop. Monks, attorneys, scriveners, and excise- 
men ! 

Enter Oronces. 

Oron. O here he is. — Sir, I have been searching 
for you, to say two words to you. 

JEsop. And now you have found me, sir, what 
are they ? 

Oron. They are, sir — that my name's Oronces : 
you comprehend me. 

JEsop, I comprehend your name. 

Oron. And not my business ? 

JEsop. Not I, by my troth. 

Oron. Then I shall endeavour to teach you, 
Monsieur iEsop. 

JEsop. And I to learn it, Monsieur Oronces. 

Oron. Know, sir — that I admire Euphronia. 

JEsop. Know, sir — that you are in the right I 
on't. 

Oron. But I pretend, sir, that nobody else shall 
admire her. 

JEsop. Then I pretend, sir, she won't admire 
you. 

Oron. Why, so, sir ? 

JEsop. Because, sir — 

Oron. What, sir ? 

JEsop. She's a woman, sir. 

Oron. What then, sir ? 

JEsop. Why then, sir, she desires to be admired 
by every man she meets. 

Oron. Sir, you are too familiar. 

JEsop. Sir, you are too haughty ; I must soften 
that harsh tone of yours : It don't become you, sir ; 
it makes a gentleman appear a porter, sir : and 
that you may know the use of good language, I'll 
tell you what once happened. 
Once on a time — 

Oron I'll have none of your old wives' fables, 
sir, I have no time to lose ; therefore, in a word — 

u32sop. In a word, be mild : for nothing else 
will do you service. Good manners and soft 
words have brought many a difficult thing to pass. 
Therefore hear me patiently. 

A cook one day, who had been drinking, 

(Only as many times, you know, 

You spruce, young, witty beaux will do, 

To avoid the dreadful pain of thinking,) 

Had orders sent him to behead 

A goose, like any chaplain fed. 

He took such pains to set his knife right, 

'T had done one good to have lost one's life by't. 

But many men have many minds, 

There's various tastes in various kinds ; 

A swan (who by mistake he seized) 

With wretched life was better pleased : 

For as he went to give the blow, 

In tuneful notes she let him know, 

She neither was a goose, nor wish'd 

To make her exit so. 

The cook (who thought of nought but blood, 

Except it were the grease, 

For that you know's his fees) 

To hear her sing, in great amazement stood. 

" Cods-fish !" quoth he, " 'twas well you spoke, 

For I was just upon the stroke : 

Your feathers have so much of goose, 

A drunken cook could do no less 

Than think you one : that you'll confess : 



But y'have a voice so soft, so sweet, 
That rather than you shall be eat, 
The house shall starve for want of meat : ' ' 
And so he turned her loose. 
Now, sir, what say you ? Will you be the swan or 
the goose ? 

Oron. The choice can't sure be difficult to make ; 
I hope you will excuse my youthful heat, 
Young men and lovers have a claim to pardon : 
But since the faults of age have no such plea, 
I hope you'll be more cautious of offending. 
The flame that warms Euphronia's heart and mine 
Has long, alas ! been kindled in our breasts : 
Even years are past since our two souls were wed, 
'Twould be adultery but to wish to part 'em. 
And would a lump of clay alone content you, 
A mistress cold and senseless in your arms, 
Without the least remains or signs of life, 
Except her sighs, to mourn her absent lover ? 
Whilst you should press her in your eager arms, 
With fond desire and ecstacy of love, 
Would it not pierce you to the very soul, 
To see her tears run trickling down her cheeks, 
And know their fountain meant 'em all to me ? 
Could you bear this ? 

Yet thus the gods revenge themselves on those 
Who stop the happy course of mutual love. 
If you must be unfortunate one way, 
Choose that where justice may support your grief, 
And shun the weighty curse of injured lovers. 

JEsop. Why, this is pleading like a swan indeed ! 
Were anything at stake but my Euphronia — 
Oron. Your Euphronia, sir ! — 
JEsop. The goose — take heed- 

Were anything, I say, at stake but her, 
Your plea would be too strong to be refused. 
But our debate's about a lady, sir, 
That's young, that's beautiful, that's made for love. 
— So am not I, you'll say ? But you're mistaken ; 

sir ; 
I'm made to love, though not to be beloved. 
I have a heart like yours ; I've folly too : 
I've every instrument of love like others. 

Oron. But, sir, you have not been so long a 
lover ; 
Your passion's young and tender, 
'Tis easy for you to become its master ; 
Whilst I should strive in vain : mine's old and 
fix'd. 
JEsop. The older 'tis, the easier to be govern'd. 
Were mine of as long a standing, 'twere possible I 
might get the better on't. Old passions are like 
old men ; weak, and soon jostled into the kennel. 
Oron. Yet age sometimes is strong, even to the 

verge of life. 
JEsop. Ay, but there our comparison don't hold. 
Oron. You are too merry to be much in love. 
JEsop. And you too sad to be so long. 
Oron. My grief may end my days, so quench 
my flame, 
But nothing else can e'er extinguish it. 

JEsop. Don't be discouraged, sir ; I have seen 
many a man outlive his passion twenty years. 

Oron. But I have sworn to die Euphronia's 
slave. 

JEsop. A decayed face always absolves a lover's 
oath. 

Or on. Lovers whose oaths are made to faces then : 
But 'tis Euphronia's soul that I adore, 
Which never can decay. 



SCENE I. 



msov. 



383 



JEsop. I would fain see a young fellow in love 
with a soul of threescore. 

Oron. Quit but Euphroniato me, and you shall ; 
At least if Heaven's bounty will afford us 
But years enough to prove my constancy, 
And this is all I ask the gods and you. {Exit. 

JEsop. A good pretence however to beg long life. 
How grossly do the inclinations of the flesh impose 



upon the simplicity of the spirit ! Had this young 
fellow but studied anatomy, he'd have found the 
source of his passion lay far from his mistress's 
soul. Alas ! alas ! had women no more charms 
in their bodies than what they have in their minds, 
we should see more wise men in the world, much 
fewer lovers and poets, {Exit. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 
Enter Euphronta and Doris. 

Euph. Heavens, what is't you make me do, 
Doris ? Apply myself to the man I loathe ; beg 
favours from him I hate ; seek a reprieve from 
him I abhor ; 'tis low, 'tis mean, 'tis base in me. 

Dor. Why, you hate the devil as much as you 
do iEsop, (or within a small matter,) and should 
you think it a scandal to pray him to let you alone 
a day or two, if he were going to run away with 
you ; ha ? 

Euph. I don't know what I think, nor what I 
say, nor what I do : but sure thou'rt not my 
friend thus to advise me. 

Dor. I advise ! I advise nothing ; e'en follow 
your own way ; marry him, and make much of 
him. I have a mind to see some of his breed ; 
if you like it, I like it. He shan't breed out of 
me only ; that's all I have to take care of. 

Euph. Prithee don't distract me. 

Dor. Why, to-morrow's the day, fixed and firm, 
you know it. Much meat, little order, great many 
relations, few friends, horse-play, noise, and bawdy 
stories, all's ready for a complete wedding. 

Euph. Oh ! what shall I do ? 

Dor. Nay, I know this makes you tremble ; and 
yet your tender conscience scruples to drop one 
hypocritical curtsy, and say, pray, Mr. iEsop, be 
so kind to defer it a few days longer. 

Euph. Thou knowest I cannot dissemble. 

Dor. I know you can dissemble well enough 
when you should not do't. Do you remember 
how you used to plague your poor Oronces ; make 
him believe you loathed him, when you could have 
kissed the ground he went on ; affront him in all 
public places ; ridicule him in all company ; 
abuse him wherever you went : and when you had 
reduced him within ambs-ace of hanging or drown- 
ing then come home with tears in your eyes, and cry, 
Now, Doris, let's go lock ourselves up, and talk of 
my dear Oronces.— Is not this true ? 

Euph. Yes, yes, yes. But, prithee, have some 
compassion of me. Come, I'll do anything thou 
biddest me. — What shall I say to this monster ? tell 
me, and I'll obey thee. 

Dor. Nay, then there's some hopes of you. — 
Why you must tell him — 'Tis natural to you to 
dislike folks at first sight : that since you have 
considered him better, you find your aversion 
abated : that though perhaps it may be a hard 
matter for you ever to think him a beau, you don't 
despair in time of finding out his je-ne-sais-quoi. 
And that on t'other side ; though you have 
hitherto thought (as most young women do) that 
nothing could remove your first affection, yet you 



have very great hopes in the natural inconstancy of 
your sex. Tell him, 'tis not impossible, a change 
may happen, provided he gives you time : but 
that if he goes to force you, there's another piece 
of nature peculiar to woman, which may chance to 
spoil all, and that's contradiction. Ring that 
argument well in his ears : he's a philosopher, he 
knows it has weight in't. In short, wheedle, 
whine, flatter, lie, weep, spare nothing; it's a 
moist age, women have tears enough ; and when 
you have melted him down, and gained more time, 
we'll employ it in closet-debates how to cheat him 
to the end of the chapter. 

Euph. But you don't consider, Doris, that by 
this means I engage myself to him ; and can't 
afterwards with honour retreat. 

Dor. Madam, I know the world. — Honour's a 
jest, when jilting's useful. Besides, he that 
would have you break your oath with Oronces, 
can never have the impudence to blame you for 
cracking your word with himself. But who knows 
what may happen between the cup and the lip ? 
Let either of the old gentlemen die, and we ride 
triumphant. Would I could but see the states- 
man sick a little, I'd recommend a doctor to him, 
a cousin of mine, a man of conscience, a wise 
physician ; tip but the wink, he understands you. 

Euph. Thou wicked wench, wouldst poison 
him ? 

Dor. I don't know what I would do. I think, I 
study, I invent, and somehow I will get rid of him. 
I do more for you, I'm sure, than you and your 
knight-errant do together for yourselves. 

Euph. Alas ! both he and I do all we can ; thou 
knowest we do. 

Dor. Nay, I know y'are willing enough to get 
together ; but y'are a couple of helpless things, 
Heaven knows. 

Euph. Our stars, thou seest, are bent to oppo- 
sition. 

Dor. Stars ! — I'd fain see the stars hinder me 
from running away with a man I liked. 

Euph. Ay, but thou knowest, should I disoblige 
my father, he'd give my portion to my younger 
sister. 

Dor. Ay, there the shoe pinches, there's the 
love of the age ! Ah ! — to what an ebb of passion 
are lovers sunk in these days ! Give me a woman 
that runs away with a man when his whole estate's 
packed up in his snapsack : that tucks up her 
coats to her knees ; and. through thick and through 
thin, from quarters to camp, trudges heartily on, 
with a child at her back, another in her arms, and 
a brace in her belly : there's flame with a witness, 
where this is the effects on't. But we must have 
love in a featherbed : forsooth, a coach and six 



384 



msov. 



horses, clean linen, and a caudle ! Fy, for shame ! 
— ho, here comes our man ! Now show yourself 
a woman, if you are one. 

Enter iEsop. 

JEsop. I'm told, fair virgin, you desire to speak 
with me. Lovers are apt to flatter themselves ; I 
take your message for a favour. I hope 'twas 
meant so. 

Euph. Favours from women are so cheap of 
late, men may expect 'em truly without vanity. 

JEsop. If the women are so liberal, I think the 
men are generous too on their side. Tis a well- 
bred age, thank Heaven : and a deal of civility 
there passes between the two sexes. — What service 
is't that I can do you, lady ? 

Euph. Sir, I have a small favour to entreat you. 

JEsop. What is't ? I don't believe I shall refuse 
you. 

Euph. What if you should promise me you 
won't ? 

JEsop. Why then I should make a divorce be- 
tween my good-breeding and my sense, which 
ought to be as sacred a knot as that of wedlock. 

Euph. Dare you not trust then, sir, the thing 
you love ? 

JEsop. Not when the thing I love don't love me : 
never ! 

Dor. Trust is sometimes the way to be beloved. 

JEsop. Ay, but 'tis oftener the way to be cheated. 

Euph. Fray promise me you'll grant my suit. 

Dor. 'Tis a reasonable one, I give you my word 
for't. 

JEsop. If it be so, I do promise to grant it. 

Dor. That's still leaving yourself judge. 

JEsop. Why, who's more concerned in the trial ? 

Dor. But nobody ought to be judge in their own 
cause. 

JEsop. Yet he that is so, is sure to have no 
wrong done him. 

Dor. But if he does wrong to others, that's 
worse. 

JEsop. Worse for them, but not for him. 

Dor. True politician, by my troht ! 

JEsop. Men must be so when they have to do 
with sharpers. 

Euph, If I should tell you then there were a 
possibility I might be brought to love you, you'd 
scarce believe me. 

JEsop. I should hope as a lover, and suspect as 
a statesman. 

Dor. [Aside.'] Love and wisdom ! There's the 
passion of the age again. 

Euph. You have lived long, sir, and observed 
much : did you never see Time produce strange 
ehanges ? 

JEsop. Amongst women, I must confess I have. 

Euph. Why, I'm a woman, sir. 

JEsop. Why, truly, that gives me some hopes. 

Euph. I'll increase 'em, sir ; I have already been 
in love two years. 

Dor. And time, you know, wears all things to 
tatters. 

JEsop. Well observed. 

Euph. What if you should allow me some to try 
what I can do ? 

JEsop. Why, truly, I would have patience a day 
or two, if there were as much probability of my 
being your new gallant, as perhaps there may be 
of changing your old one. 



Dor. She shall give you fair play for't, sir ; 
opportunity and leave to prattle, and that's what 
carries most women in our days. Nay, she shall 
do more for you. You shall play with her fan ; 
squeeze her little finger ; buckle her shoe ; read a 
romance to her in the arbour ; and saunter in the 
woods on a moonshiny night. If this don't melt 
her, she's no woman, or you no man. 

JEsop. I'm not a man to melt a woman that way : 
I know myself, and know what they require. 
'Tis through a woman's eye you pierce her heart. 
And I've no darts can make their entrance there. 

Dor. You are a great statesman, sir ; but I find 
you know little of our matters. A woman's heart 
is to be entered forty ways. Every sense she has 
about her keeps a door to it. With a smock-face, 
and a feather, you get in at her eyes. With power- 
ful nonsense, in soft words, you creep in at her 
ears. An essenced peruke, and a sweet handker- 
chief, lets you in at her nose. With a treat, and 
a boxfull of sweetmeats, you slip in at her mouth : 
and if you would enter by her sense of feeling, 'tis 
as beaten a road as the rest. What think you 
now, sir ? There are more ways to the woods than 
one, you see. 

JEsop. Why, you're an admirable pilot- ; I don't 
doubt but you have steered many a ship safe to 
harbour. But I'm an old stubborn seaman ; I 
must sail by my own compass still. 

Euph. And, by your obstinacy, lose your vessel. 

JEsop. No : I'm just entering into port ; we'll 
be married to-morrow. . 

Euph. For Heaven's sake, defer it some days 
longer ! I cannot love you yet, indeed I cannot. 

JEsop. Nor never will, I dare swear. 

Euph. Why then will you marry me ? 

JEsop. Because 1 love you. 

Euph. If you loved me, you would never make 
me miserable. 

JEsop. Not if I loved you for your sake ; but I 
love you for my own. 

Dor. [Aside.] There's an old rogue for you. 

Euph. [ Weeping.] Is there no way left ! must 
I be wretched ? 

JEsop. 'Tis but resolving to be pleased. You 
can't imagine the strength of resolution. I have 
seen a woman resolve to be in the wrong all the 
days of her life ; and by the help of her resolution 
she has kept her word to a tittle. 

Euph. Methinks the subject we're upon should 
be of weight enough to make you serious. 

JEsop. Right. To-morrow morning, pray be 
ready ; you'll find me so : I'm serious. Now I hope 
you are pleased. [Turning away from her. 

Euph. Break heart ! for if thou holdest, I'm 
miserable. [Going offiveeping, and leaning upon Doris. 

Dor. [To iEsop.] Now may the extravagance 
of a lewd wife, with the insolence of a virtuous one, 
join hand in hand to bring thy grey hairs to the 
grave. [Exeunt Euphronia and Doris. 

Msop. My old friend wishes me well to the last, 
I see. 

Enter Learchus hastily , followed by Oronces. 

Oron. Pray hear me, sir. 

Lear. 'Tis in vain : I'm resolved, I tell you. — 
Most noble iEsop, since you are pleased to accept 
of my poor offspring for your consort, be so charit- 
able to my old age, to deliver me from the imper- 
tinence of youth, by making her your wife this 



SCENE I. 



^:sop. 



885 



instant ; for there's a plot against my life ; they 
have resolved to tease me to death to-night, that 
they may break the match to-morrow morning. 
Marry her this instant, I entreat you. 

JEsop. This instant, say you ! 

Lear. This instant ; this very instant. 

JEsop. 'Tis enough ; get all things ready ; I'll 
be with you in a moment. [Exit. 

Lear. Now, what say you, Mr. Flamefire ? I 
shall have the whiphand of you presently. 

Oron. Defer it but till to-morrow, sir. 

Lear. That you may run away with her to-night ; 
ha ? — Sir, your most obedient, humble servant. — 
Hey, who waits there ? 

Enter Servant. 

Call my daughter to me : quick. — [Exit Servant.] 
I'll give her her despatches presently. 

Re-enter Euphronja. 

Euph. D'ye call, sir? 

Lear. Yes I do, minx. Go shift yourself, and 
put on your best clothes. You are to be married. 

Euph. Married, sir ! 

Lear. Yes, married, madam ; and that this 
instant too. 

Euph. Dear sir ! 

Lear. Not a word : obedience and a clean smock; 
despatch! - [Ej?^ Euphronia weeping.'] Sir, your 
most obedient humble servant. [Going. 

Oron. Yet hear what I've to say. 

Lear. And what have you to say, sir ? 

Oron. Alas ! I know not what I have to say ! 

Lear. Very like so. — That's a sure sign he's in 
love now. 

Oron. Have you no bowels ? 

Lear. Ha ! ha ! bowels in a parent ; here's a 
young fellow for you ! — Hark thee, stripling ; 
being in a very merry humour, I don't care if I 
discover some paternal secrets to thee. Know 
then, that how humoursome, how whimsical soever 
we may appear, there's one fixed principle that 
runs through almost the whole race of us ; and 
that's to please ourselves. Why dost think I got 
my daughter? Why, there was something in't 
that pleased me. Why dost think I marry my 
daughter ? Why to please myself still. And what 
is't that pleases me ? Why, my interest ; what 
dost think it should be ? If JEsop's my son-in- 
law, he'll make me a lord : if thou art my son-in- 
law, thou'lt make me a grandfather. Now I having 
more mind to be a lord than a grandfather, give 
my daughter to him, and not to thee. 

Oron. Then shall her happiness weigh nothing 
with you? 

Lear. Not this. If it did, I'd give her to thee, 
and not to him. 

Oron. Do you think forced marriage the way to 
keep women virtuous ? 

Lear. No ; nor I don't care whether women are 
virtuous or not. 

Oron. You know your daughter loves me. 

Lear. I do so. 

Oron. What if the children that JEsop may 
happen to father should chance to be begot by me ? 

Lear. Why, then JEsop would be the cuckold, not I. 

Or on. Is that all your care ? 

Lear. Yes : I speak as a father. 

Oron. What think you of your child's concern 
in t'other world "" 



Lear. Why, I think it my child's concern, not 
mine. I speak as a father. 

Oron. Do you remember you once gave me 
your consent to wed your daughter ? 

Lear. I did. 

Oron. Why did you so ? 

Lear. Because you were the best match that 
offered at that time. I did like a father. 

Oron. Why then, sir, I'll do like a lover. I'll 
make you keep your word, or cut your throat. 

Lear. Who waits there, ha ? 

Enter Servants. 

Seize me that bully there. Carry him to prison, 
and keep him safe. [They seize him. 

Oron. Why, you won't use me thus ? 
Lear. Yes, but I will though. — Away with him ! 
— Sir, your most humble servant : I wish you a 
good night's rest ; and as far as a merry dream 
goes, my daughter's at your service. 
Oron. Death and furies ! 

[Exeunt Servants ivith Oronces. 
Lear. [Singing.] 

Dol, de tol dol, dol dol, de tol dol : 
Lilly Burleighre's lodged in a bough. 

Enter a Troop of Musicians, Dancers, Sfc. 

Lear. How now ! what have we got here ? 

Mus. Sir, we are a troop of trifling fellows, 
fiddlers and dancers, come to celebrate the wedding 
of your fair daughter, if your honour pleases to 
give us leave. 

Lear. With all my heart : but who do you take 
me for, sir ; ha ? 

Mus. I take your honour for our noble governor 
of Cyzicus. 

Lear. Governor of Cyzicus ! Governor of a 
cheese-cake ! I'm father-in-law to the great JEsop, 
sirrah. — [All bow to him.] — {Aside.] I shall be a 
great man. — {Aloud.] Come, tune your fiddles : 
shake your legs ; get all things ready. My son-in- 
law will be here presently.— I shall be a great man. 

[Exit. 

1 Mus. A great marriage, brother : what dost 
think will be the end on't ? 

2 Mus. Why, I believe we shall see three turns 
upon't. This old fellow here will turn fool ; his 
daughter will turn strumpet ; and his son-in-law 
will turn 'em both out of doors. But that's 
nothing to thee nor me, as long as we are paid for 
our fiddling. So tune away, gentlemen. 

1 Mus. D'ye hear, trumpets, when the bride 
appears, salute her with a melancholy waft. 'Twill 
suit her humour ; for I guess she mayn't be over- 
well pleased. 

Re-enter Learchus with several Gentlemen, and a Prieat. 
Lear. Gentlemen and friends, y'are all welcome. 
I have sent to as many of you as our short time 
would give me leave, to desire you would be wit- 
nesses of the honour the great JEsop designs our- 
self and family Hey ; who attends there ? 

Enter Servant. 

Go let my daughter know I wait for her. — \_Exil 
Servant] 'Tis a vast honour that is done me, 
gentlemen. 

Gent. It is indeed, my lord. 

Lear. [Aside.] Look you there ; if they don't 
call me mv lord already — 1 shall be a great man. 

c c 



336 



JEWY 



Re-enter Euphronia weeping, and leaning upon Doris, 
both in deep mourning. 
Lear. How now ! what's here ? all in deep 
mourning ! — Here's a provoking baggage for you. 
IThe trumpets sound a melancholy air till Msop appears; 
and then the violins and hautboys strike up a Lanca- 
shire hornpipe. 

Re-enter Msop in a gay foppish dress, long peruke, %c., a 
gaudy equipage of Pages and Footmen, all enter in an 
airy brisk manner. 

JEsop. [In an affected tone to Euphronia.] 
Gad take my soul, mame, I hope I shall please you 
now ! — Gentlemen all, I'm your humble servant. 
I'm going to be a very happy man, you see. — [To 
Euphronia.] When the heat of the ceremony's 
over, if your ladyship pleases, mame, I'll wait upon 
you to take the air in the Park. — Hey, page ; let 
there be a coach and six horses ready instantly. — 
[Observing her dress.} I vow to Gad, mame, I 
was so taken up with my good fortune, I did not 
observe the extreme fancy of your ladyship's 
wedding-clothes ! — Infinitely pretty, as I hope to 
be saved ! a world of variety, and not at all gaudy ! 
— [To Learchus.] My dear father-in-law, em- 
brace me. 

Lear. Your lordship does me too much honour- 
— [Aside.'} I shall be a great man. 

JEsop. Come, gentlemen, are all things ready ? 
Where's the priest ? 

Priest. Here, my noble lord. 

JEsop. Most reverend, will you please to say 
grace that I may fall to, for I'm very hungry, and 
here's very good meat. — But where's my rival all 
this while ? The least we can do, is to invite him 
to the wedding. 

Lear. My lord, he's in prison. 

JEsop. In prison ! how so ! 

Lear. He would have murdered me. 

JEsop. A bloody fellow ! But let's see him how- 
ever. Send for him quickly. Ha, governor, that 
handsome daughter of yours, I will so mumble 
her ! — 

Lear. I shall be a great man. 

Re-enter Oronces, pinioned and guarded. 

JEsop. O ho, here's my rival ! Then we have 
all we want. — Advance, sir, if you please. I ciesire 
you'll do me the favour to be a witness to my mar- 
riage, lest one of these days you should take a 
fancy to dispute my wife with me. 

Oron. Do you then send for me to insult me ? 
'Tis base in you. 

JEsop. I have no time now to throw away upon 
points of generosity ; I have hotter work upon my 
hands. — Come, priest, advance. 

Lear. Pray hold him fast there ; he has the devil 
and all of mischief in's eye. 

JEsop. [To Euphronia.] Will your ladyship 

please, mame, to give me your fair hand. — Heyday ! 

[She refuses her hand. 

Lear. I'll give it you, my noble lord, if she 
won't. — [Aside.} A stubborn, self-willed, stiff- 
necked strumpet ! 

[Learchus holds out her hand to iEsop, who takes it ,• 
Oronoes stands on iEsop's left hand, and the Priest 
before them. 

JEsop. Let my rival stand next me : of all men 
I'd have him be satisfied. 

Oron. Barbarous inhuman monster ! 

Msop. Now, priest, do thy office. 

[Flourish with the trumpets, i 



Priest Since the eternal laws of fate decree, 
That he thy husband, she thy wife, should be, 
May heaven take you to its care, 
May Jupiter look kindly down, 
Place on your heads contentment's crown ; 
And may his godhead never frown 
Upon this happy pair. 

[Flourish again of trumpets. As the Priest pro- 
nounces the last line, Msop joins Oronces and 
Euphronia's hands. 

Oron. O happy change ! Blessings on blessings 
wait on the generous iEsop. 

JEsop. Happy, thrice happy may you ever be, 
And if you think there's something due to me, 
Pay it in mutual love and constancy. 

Euph. [ ToiEsop.] You'll pardon me, most gene- 
If in the present transports of my soul, [rous man, 
Which you yourself have by your bounty caused, 
My willing tongue is tied from uttering 
The thoughts that flow from a most grateful heart, 

JEsop. For what I've done I merit little thanks, 
Since what I've done, my duty bound me to. 
I would your father had acquitted his : 
But he who's such a tyrant o'er his children 
To sacrifice their peace to his ambition, 
Is fit to govern nothing but himself. 
And therefore, sir, at my return to court 

\_To Learchus. 
I shall take care this city may be sway'd 
By more humanity than dwells in you. 

Lear. [Aside.} I shall be a great man. 

Euph. [To tEsop.] Had I not reason, from 
your constant goodness, 
To judge your bounty, sir, is infinite, 
I should not dare to sue for farther favours : 
But pardon me, if imitating Heaven and you, 
I easily forgive my aged father, 
And beg that iEsop would forgive him too. 

[Kneeling to him. 

Msop. The injury he would have done to you 
Was great indeed : 

But 'twas a blessing he design'd for me. 
If therefore you can pardon him, I may. 
Your injured daughter, sir, has on her knees 

\_To Learchus. 
Entreated for her cruel barbarous father ; 
And by her goodness has obtained her suit. 
If in the remnant of your days you can find out 
some way to recompense her, do it, that men and 
gods may pardon you, as she and I have done. — 
But let me see, I have one quarrel still to make up. 
Where's my old friend Doris ? 

Dor. She's here, sir, at your service ; and as 
much your friend as ever : true to her principles, 
and firm to her mistress. But she has a much better 
opinion of you now than she had half an hour ago. 

Msop. She has reason : for my soul appeared 
then as deformed as my body. But I hope now 
one may so far mediate for t'other, that provided 
I don't make love, the women won't quarrel with 
me ; for they are worse enemies even than they are 

friends Come, gentlemen, I'll humour my dress 

a little longer, and share with you in the diversions 

these boon companions have prepared us. Let's 

take our places, and see how they can divert us. 

[vEsop leads Euphronia to her place. All being seated, 

there follows a short concert of hautboys, trumpets, 

SfC. After which a dance between an Old Man and a 

Young Woman, who shuns him still as he comes near 

her. At last he stops, and begins this dialogue, which 

they sing together. 



iESQF. 



387 



Old Man. Why so cold, and why so coy ? 
What I want in youth and fire, 
I have in love and in desire : 
To my arms, my love, my joy ! 
Why so cold, and why so coy ? 

Woman. 'Tis sympathy perhaps with you ; 
You are cold, and I'm so too. 

Old Man. My years alone have froze my blood ; 
Youthful heat in female charms, 
Glowing in my aged arms, 
Would melt it down once more into a flood. 

Woman. Women, alas, like flints, ne'er burn 
To make a virgin know [alone ; 

There's fire within the stone, 
Some manly steel must boldly strike the blow. 

Old Man. Assist me only with your charms, 
You'll find I'm man, and still am bold ; 
You'll find I still can strike, though old : 
I only want your aid to raise my arm. 

Enter a Youth, ivlio seizes on the Young Woman. 

Youth. Who talks of charms, who talks of aid ? 
I bring an arm 
That wants no charm, 
To rouse the fire that's in a flinty maid. 
Retire, old age ! — 

Woman. Winter, begone ! 

Behold, the youthful Spring comes gaily on. 
Here, here's a torch to light a virgin's fire ! 
To my arms, my love, my joy ! 
When women have what they desire, 
They're neither cold nor coy. 
[She takes him in her arms. The song and dance ended, 
Msop takes Euphronja and Oronces by the hands, 
lending them forwards. 

JEsop. By this time, my young eager couple, 'tis 
probable you would be glad to be alone ; perhaps 
you'll have a mind to go to bed even without your 
supper ; for brides and bridegrooms eat little on 
their wedding-night. But since if matrimony were 
worn as it ought to be, it would perhaps sit easier 
about us than usually it does, I'll give you one 
word of counsel, and so I shall release you. When 
one is out of humour, let the other be dumb. Let 
your diversions be such as both may have a share 
in 'em. Never let familiarity exclude respect. Be 
clean in your clothes, but nicely so in your persons. 
Eat at one table, lie in one room, but sleep in two 
beds : I'll tell the ladies why. — 

[Turning to the boxes. 

In the sprightly month of May, 

When males and females sport and play, 

And kiss and toy away the day ; 

An eager sparrow and his mate 

Chirping on a tree were sate, 

Full of love — and full of prate. 



They talk'd of nothing but their fires, 

Of raging heats and strong desires, 

Of eternal constancy ; 

How true and faithful they would De, 

Of this and that, and endless joys, 

And a thousand more such toys : 

The only thing they apprehended, 

Was that their lives would be so short, 

They could not finish half their sport 

Before their days were ended. 

But as from bough to bough they rove, 

They chanced at last 

In furious haste, 
On a twig with birdlime spread, 
(Want of a more downy bed) 
To act a scene of love. 
Fatal it proved to both their fires. 
For though at length they broke away, 
And balk'd the schoolboy of his prey, 
Which made him weep the livelong day, 
The bridegroom in the hasty strife, 
Was stuck so fast to his dear wife, 
That though he used his utmost art, 
He quickly found it was in vain, 
To put himself to further pain, 
They never more must part. 
A gloomy shade o'ercast his brow ; 
He found himself — I know not how : 
He look'd — as husbands often do. 
Where'er he moved he felt her still, 
She kiss'd him oft against his will : 
Abroad, at home, at bed and board, 
With favours she o'erwhelm'd her lord. 
Oft he turn'd his head away, 
And seldom had a word to say. 
Which absolutely spoil'd her play, 
For she was better stored. 
Howe'er at length her stock was spent, 
(For female fires sometimes may be 
Subject to mortality ;) 

So back to back they sit and sullenly repent. 
But the mute scene was quickly ended, 
The lady, for her share, pretended 
The want of love lay at his door ; 
For her part she had still in store 
Enough for him and twenty more, 
Which could not be contented. 
He answer'd her in homely words, 
(For sparrows are but ill-bred birds,) 
That he already had enjoy'd 
So much, that truly he was cloy'd. 
Which so provoked her spleen, 
That after some good hearty prayers, 
A jostle, and some spiteful tears, 
They fell together by the ears, 
And ne'er were fond again. [Exeunt omnes. 



CC2 



M S O P 

PART II. 



SCENE I. 

Enter several Players, male and female. They salute 
.<Esop. 

JEsop. Well, good people, who are all you ? 

All. Sir, we are players. 

JEsop. Players ! what players ? 

Play. Why, sir, we are stage-players, that's 
our calling : though we play upon other things 
too ; some of us play upon the fiddle ; some play 
upon the flute ; we play upon one another ; we 
play upon the town ; and we play upon the pa- 
tentees. 

Osop. Patentees ! prithee, what are they ? 

Play. Why, they are, sir — sir, they are — cod, 
I don't know what they are ! — fish or flesh — mas- 
ters or servants : — sometimes one— sometimes 
t'other, I think — just as we are in the mood. 

JEsop. Why, I thought they had a lawful autho- 
rity over you. 

Play. Lawful authority, sir L — sir, we are free- 
born Englishmen, we care not for law nor authority 
neither, when we are out of humour. 

JEsop. But I think they pretended at least to an 
authority over you ; pray upon what foundation 
was it built ? 

Play. Upon a rotten one — if you'll believe us. 
Sir, I'll tell you what the projectors did : they 
embarked twenty thousand pound upon a leaky 
vessel. — She was built at Whitehall ; I think they 
called her — the Patent — ay, the Patent : her keel 
was made of a broad seal — and the king gave them 
a white staff for their mainmast. She was a pretty 
tight frigate to look upon, indeed : they spared 
nothing to set her off ; they gilded her, and painted 
her, and rigged, and gunned her ; and so sent her 
a-privateering. But the first storm that blew, 
down went the mast ! ashore went the ship ! — 
Crack ! says the keel : — Mercy ! cried the pilot ; but 
the wind was so high, his prayers could not be 
heard — so they split upon a rock — that lay hid 
under a petticoat. 

JEsop. A very sad story, this : but what became 
of the ship's company ? 

Play. Why, sir, your humble servants here, who 
were the officers, and the best of the sailors — (little 
Ben amongst the rest) seized on a small bark that 
lay to our hand, and away we put to sea again. To 
say the truth, we were better manned than rigged, 
and ammunition was plaguy scarce amongst us. 
However, a-cruising we went, and some petty small 
prizes we have made ; but the blessing of heaven 
not being among us — or how the devil 'tis, I can't 
tell ; but we are not rich. 



JEsop. Well, but what became of the rest of the 
crew? 

Play. Why, sir, as for the scoundrels, they, poor 
dogs, stuck by the wreck. The captain gave 
them bread and cheese, and good words. He told 
them if they would patch her up, and venture 
t'other cruise, he'd prefer 'em all ; so to work they 
went, and to sea they got her. 

JEsop. I hope he kept his word with 'em. 

Play. That he did ; he made the boatswain's 
mate lieutenant ; he made the cook doctor ; he was 
| forced to be purser, and pilot, and gunner himself; 
and the swabber took orders to be chaplain. 

JEsop. But with such unskilful officers, I'm 
afraid, they'll hardly keep above water long. 

Play. Why, truly, sir, we care not how soon 
they are under : but cursed folks thrive, I think. 
I know nothing else that makes 'em swim. I'm 
sure, by the rules of navigation, they ought to have 
overset long since ; for they carry a great deal of 
sail, and have very little ballast. 

JEsop. I'm afraid you ruin one another. I fancy 
if you were all in a ship together again, you'd have 
less work and more profit. 

Play. Ah, sir — we are resolved we'll never sail 
under captain Patentee again. 

JEsop. Prithee, why so ? 

Play. Sir, he has used us like dogs. 

Worn. And bitches too, sir. 

JEsop. I'm sorry to hear that ; pray how was't 
he treated you ? 

Play. Sir, 'tis impossible to tell ; he used us 
like the English at Amboyna. 

j:Esop. But I would know some particulars ; tell 
me what 'twas he did to you. 

Play. What he did, sir ! — why, he did in the 
first place, sir — in the first place, sir, he did — ecod, 
I don't know what he did. — Can you tell, wife ? 

Worn. Yes, marry can I ; and a burning shame 
it was too. 

Play. Oh, I remember now, sir, he would not 
give us plums enough in our pudding. 

JEsop. That indeed was very hard ; but did he 
give you as many as he promised you ? 

Play. Yes, and more ; but what of all that? we 
had not as many as we had a mind to. 

1 Worn. Sir, my husband tells. you truth. 

JEsop. I believe he may. But what other 
wrongs did he do you ? 

1 Worn. Why, sir, he did not treat me with 
respect ; 'twas not one day in three he would so 
much as bid me good-morrow. 

2 Worn. Sir, he invited me to dinner, and never 
drank my health. 



SCKNE 1. 



JESOP. 



389 



1 Worn. Then he cocked his hat at Mrs. 
Pert. 

2 Worn. Yes, and told Mrs. Slippery he had as 
good a face as she had. 

JEsop. Why, these were insufferable abuses ! 

2 Play. Then, sir, I did but come to him one 
day, and tell him I wanted fifty pound, and what do 
you think he did by me, sir — sir, he turned round 
upon his heel like a top — 

1 Play. But that was nothing to the affront he 
put upon me, sir. I came to him, and in very civil 
words, as I thought, desired him to double my 
pay : sir, would you believe it ? he had the bar- 
barity to ask me if I intended to double my work ; 
and because I told him no, sir — he did use me — 
good Lord, how he did use me ! 

JEsop. Prithee how ? 

1 Play. Why, he walked off, and answered me 
never a word. 

JEsop. How had you patience ? 

1 Play. Sir, I had not patience. I sent him a 
challenge ; and what do you think his answer was ? 
— he sent me word I was a scoundrel son of a 
whore, and he would only fight me by proxy ! 

JEsop. Very fine ! 

1 Play. At this rate, sir, were we poor dogs 
used — till one frosty morning down he comes 
amongst us — and very roundly tells us — that for 
the future, no purchase no pay. They that would 
not work should not eat. — Sir, we at first asked 
him coolly and civilly, Why ? His answer was, 
because the town wanted diversion, and he wanted 
money. — Our reply to this, sir, was very short ; 
but I think to the purpose. 

JEsop. What was it ? 

1 Play. It was, sir, that so we wallowed in 
plenty and ease — the town and he might be damned ! 
This, sir, is the true history of separation — and we 
hope you'll stand our friend. 

JEsop. I'll tell you what, sirs — 

I once a pack of beagles knew 

That much resembled — I know who ; 

With a good huntsman at their tail, 

In full command, 

With whip in hand, 

They'd run apace 

The cheerful chace, 

And of their game were seldom known to fail. 

But, being at length their chance to find 

A huntsman of a gentler kind, 

They soon perceived the rein was slack, 

The word went quickly through the pack — 

They one and all cried " Liberty ! 

This happy moment we are free, 

We'll range the woods, 

Like nymphs and gods, 

And spend our mouths in praise of mutiny." 

With that old Jowler trots away, 

And Bowman singles out his prey ; 

Thunder bellow'd through the wood, 

And swore he'd burst his guts with blood. 

Venus tripp'd it o'er the plain, 

With boundless hopes of boundless gain. 

Juno, she slipp'd down the hedge, 

But left her sacred word for pledge ; 

That all she pick'd up by-the-by 

Should to the public treasury. 

And well they might rely upon her ; 

For Juno was a bitch of honour. 



In short they all had hopes to see 

A heavenly crop of mutiny, 

And so to reaping fell : 

But in a little time they found, 

It was the devil had till'd the ground, 

And brought the seed from hell. 

The pack divided, nothing throve : 

Discord seized the throne of love. 

Want and misery all endure. 

All take pains, and all grow poor. 

When they had toil'd the livelong day, 

And came at night to view their prey, 

Oft, alas ! so ill they sped, 

That half went supperless to bed. 

At length, they all in council sate, 

Where at a very fair debate, 

It was agreed at last, 

That slavery with ease and plenty, 

When hounds were something turn'd of twenty 

Was much a better fate, 

Than 'twas to work and fast. 

1 Play. Well, sir — and what did they do then ? 

JEsop. Why, they all went home to their kennel 
again. If you think they did wisely, you'll do well 
to follow their example. [Exit. 

1 Play. Well, beagles, what think you of the 
little gentleman's advice ? 

2 Worn. I think he's a little ugly philosopher, 
and talks like a fool. 

1 Play. Ah, why, there's it now ! If he had 
been a tall, handsome blockhead, he had talked 
like a wise man. 

2 Worn. Why, do you think, Mr. Jowler, that 
we'll ever join again ? 

1 Play. I do think, sweet Mrs. Juno, that if we 
do not join again, you must be a little freer of your 
carcass than you are, or you must bring down your 
pride to a serge petticoat. 

1 Worn. And do you think, sir, after the affronts 
I have received, the patent and I can ever be 
friends ? 

1 Play. I do think, madam, that if my interest 
had not been more affronted than your face, the 
patent and you had never been foes. 

1 Worn. And so, sir, then you have serious 
thoughts of a reconciliation ? 

1 Play. Madam, I do believe I may. 

1 Worn. Why then, sir, give me leave to tell 
you, that — make it my interest, and I'll have seri- 
ous thoughts on't too. 

2 Worn. Nay, if you are thereabouts, I desire to 
come into the treaty. 

3 Play. And I. 

4 Play. And I. 

2 Play. And I. No separate peace ; none of 
your Turin play, I beseech you. 

1 Play. Why then, since you are all so chris- 
tianly disposed, I think we had best adjourn im- 
mediately to our council-chamber ; choose some 
potent prince for mediator and guarantee ; fix 
upon the place of treaty, despatch our plenipos, 
and whip up the peace like an oyster. For under 
the rose, my confederates, here is such a damned 
discount upon our bills, I'm afraid, if we stand it 
out another campaign, we must live upon slender 
subsistence. Exeunt. 



390 



iESOP. 



PART II. 



SCENE II. 



Enter a Country Gentleman, who walks to and fro, 
looking angrily upon ^Esop. 

JEsop. Have you any business with me, sir ? 

Gent. I can't tell whether I have or not. 

JEsop. You seem disturbed, sir. 

Gent. I'm always so at the sight of a courtier. 

JEsop. Pray what may it be that gives you so 
great an antipathy to 'em ? 

Gent. My profession. 

JEsop. What's that ? 

Gent. Honesty. 

JEsop. 'Tis an honest profession. I hope, sir, 
for the general good of mankind, you are in some 
public employment. 

Gent. So I am, sir ; no thanks to the court. 

JEsop. You are then, I suppose, employed by — 

Gent. My country. 

JEsop. Who have made you — 

Gent. A senator. 

JEsop. Sir, I reverence you. \_Bowing, 

Gent. Sir, you may reverence as low as you 
please ; but I shall spare none of you. Sir, I am 
entrusted by my country with above ten thousand 
of their grievances, and in order to redress 'em, 
my design is to hang ten thousand courtiers. 

JEsop. Why, 'tis making short work, I must 
confess. But are you sure, sir, that would do't ? 

Gent. Sure ! — ay, sure. 

JEsop. How do you know ? 

Gent. Why, the whole country says so, and I at 
the head of 'em. Now let me see who dares say 
the contrary. 

JEsop. Not I, truly. But, sir, if you won't take 
it ill, I'll ask. you a question or two. 

Gent. Sir, I shall take ill what I please ; and if 
you, or e'er a courtier of you all, pretend the con- 
trary, I say it's a breach of privilege. Now put 
your question, if you think fit. 

JEsop. Why then, sir, with all due regard to 
your character, and your privilege too, I would be 
glad to know what you chiefly complain of ? 

Gent, Why, sir, I do chiefly complain, that we 
have — a great many ships, and very little trade ; a 
great many tenants, and very little money ; a great 
many soldiers, and very little fighting ; a great many 
gazettes, and little good news ; a great many states- 
men, and very little wisdom ; a great many parsons, 
and not an ounce of religion. 

JEsop. Why truly, sir, I do confess these are 
grievances very well worth your redressing. I per- 
ceive you are truly sensible of our diseases, but I'm 
afraid you are a little out in the cure. 

Gent. Sir, I perceive you take me for a country 
physician : but you shall find, sir, that a country 
doctor is able to deal with a court quack; and to 
show you that I do understand something of the 
state of the body politic, I will tell you, sir, that I 
have heard a wise man say, the court is the sto- 
mach of the nation, in which, if the business be not 
thoroughly digested, the whole carcass will be in 
disorder. Now, sir, I do find by the latitude of 
the members, and the vapours that fly into the 
head, that this same stomach is full of indigestions, 
which must be removed. And therefore, sir, I am 
come post to town with my head full of crocus 
metallorum, and design to give the court a vomit. 

JEsop. Sir, the physic you mention, though 
necessary sometimes, is of too violent a nature to 



be used without a great deal of caution. I'm afraid 
you are a little too rash in your prescriptions. Is 
it not possible you may be mistaken in the cause 
of the distemper ? 

Gent. Sir, I do not think it possible I should 
be mistaken in anything. 

JEsop. Have you been long a senator ? 

Gent. No, sir. 

JEsop. Have you been much about town ? 

Gent. No, sir. 

JEsop. Have you conversed much with men of 
business ? 

Gent. No, sir. 

JEsop. Have you made any serious inquiry into 
the present disorders of the nation ? 

Gent. No, sir. 

JEsop. Have you ever heard what the men now 
employed in business have to say for themselves ? 

Gent. No, sir. 

JEsop. How then do you know they deserve to 
be punished for the present disorders in your affairs? 

Gent. I'll tell you how I know. 

JEsop. I would be glad to hear. 

Gent. Why, I know by this — I know it, I say, 
by this — that I'm sure on't. — And to give you 
demonstration that I'm sure on't, there's not one 
man in a good post in the nation — but I'd give my 
vote to hang him. Now I hope you are convinced. 

JEsop. As for example : the first minister of 
state, why would you hang him ? 

Gent. Because he gives bad counsel. 

JEsop. How do you know ? 

Gent. Why they say so. 

JEsop. And who would you put in his room ? 

Gent. One that would give better. 

JEsop. Who's that ? 

Gent. Myself. 

JEsop. The secretary of state, why would you 
hang him ? 

Gent. Because he has not good intelligence. 

JEsop. How do you know ? 

Gent. I have heard so. 

JEsop. And who would you put in his place ? 

Gent. My father. 

JEsop. The treasurer, why would you hang him ? 

Gent. Because he does not understand his busi- 



ness. 

JEsop. 

Gent. 

JEsop. 

Gent. 

JEsop 

Gent. 

JEsop. 

Gent. 

JEsop 
stead ? 

Gent. 

JEsop 

Gent. 
paign. 

JEsop. And how do you know 'twas in his power ? 

Gent. Why I don't care a souse whether it was 
in his power or not. But I have a son at home, a 
brave chopping lad ; he's been captain in the mi- 
litia these twelve months, and I'd be glad to see 
him in his place. What do ye stare for, sir ? lia ! 
Egad I tell you he'd scour all to the devil. He's 
none of your fencers, none of your sa-sa men. 
Numphs is downright, that's his play. You may 



How do you know ? 

I dreamt so. 

And who would you have succeed him ? 

My uncle. 

, The admiral, why would you hang him ? 
Because he has not destroyed the enemies. 

How do you know he could do it ? 

Why, I believe so. 
. And who would you have command in his 

My brother. 

And the general, why would you hang him ? 

Because he took ne'er a town last cam- 



SCENE III. 



JESOP. 



391 



see his courage in his face : he has a pair of cheeks 
like two bladders, a nose as flat as your hand, and 
a forehead like a bull. 

JEsop. In short, sir, I find if you and your family 
were provided for, things would soon grow better 
than they do. 

Gent. And so they would, sir. Clap me at 
the head of the state, and Numphs at the head of 
the army ; he with his club-musket, and I with 
my club-headpiece, we'd soon put an end to your 
business. 

JEsop. I believe you would indeed. And there- 
fore since I happen to be acquainted with your 
extraordinary abilities, I am resolved to give the 
king an account of you, and employ my interest 
with him, that you and your son may have the 
posts you desire. 

Gent. Will you, by the Lord ? — Give me your 
fist, sir — the only honest courtier that ever I met 
with in my life. 

JEsop. But, sir, when I have done you this 
mighty piece of service, I shall have a small request 
to beg of you, which I hope you won't refuse me. 

Gent. What's that ? 

JEsop. Why 'tis in behalf of the two officers 
who are to be displaced to make room for you and 
your son. 

Gent. The secretary and the general ? 

JEsop. The same. 'Tis pity they should be 
quite out of business ; I must therefore desire 
you'll let me recommend one of 'em to you for 
your bailiff, and t'other for your huntsman. 

Gent. My bailiff and my huntsman ! — Sir, that's 
not to be granted. 

JEsop. Pray, why? 

Gent. Why '. — because one would ruin my land, 
and t'other would spoil my fox-hounds. 

JEsop. Why do you think so ? 

Gent. Why do I think so ! — These courtiers 
will ask the strangest questions ! — Why, sir, do 
you think that men bred up to the state and the 
army, can understand the business of ploughing 
and hunting ? 

JEsop. I did not know but they might. 

Gent. How could you think so ? 

JEsop. Because I see men bred up to ploughing 
and hunting, understand the business of the state 
and the army. 

Gent. I'm shot— I ha'nt one word to say for 
myself — I never was so caught in my life. 

JEsop. I perceive, sir, by your looks what I 
have said has made some impression upon you ; 
and would perhaps do more if you would give it 
leave. — {Taking his hand.} Come, sir, though I 
am a stranger to you, I can be your friend ; my 
favour at court does not hinder me from being a 
lover of my country. 'Tis my nature as well as 
principles to be pleased with the prosperity of 
mankind. I wish all things happy, and my study 
is to make them so. The distempers of the 
government (which I own are great) have em- 
ployed the stretch of my understanding, and 
the deepest of my thoughts, to penetrate the 
cause, and to find out the remedy. But, alas ! all 
the product of my study is this: — that I find there 
is too near a resemblance between the diseases of 
the state and those of the body, for the most 
expert minister to become a greater master in one 
than the college is in t'other : and how far their 
skill extends you may see by this lump upon rny 



back. Allowances in all professions there must be, 
since 'tis weak man that is the weak professor. 
Believe me, senator, for I have seen the proof 
on't ; the longest beard amongst us is a fool. 
Could you but stand behind the curtain, and there 
observe the secret springs of state, you'd see in all 
the good or evil that attends it, ten ounces of 
chance for one grain either of wisdom or roguery. 
You'd see, perhaps, a venerable statesman 
Sit fast asleep in a great downy chair ; 
Whilst in that soft vacation of his thought, 
Blind chance (or what at least we blindly call so) 
Shall so dispose a thousand secret wheels, 
That when he wakes he needs but write his name. 
To publish to the world some bless'd event, 
For which his statue shall be raised in brass. 
Perhaps a moment thence you shall behold him 
Torturing his brain ; his thoughts all stretch'd upon 
The rack for public service : the livelong night, 
When all the world's at rest, 
Consumed in care, and watching for their safety, 
When by a whirlwind in his fate, 
In spite of him some mischief shall befal 'em, 
For which a furious sentence straight shall pass, 
And they shall vote him to the scaffold. 
Even thus uncertain are rewards and punishments ; 
And even thus little do the people know 
When 'tis the statesman merits one or t'other. 

Gent. Now I do believe I am beginning to be 
a wise man ; for I never till now perceived I was a 
fool. But do you then really believe, sir, our men 
in business do the best they can ? 

JEsop. Many of 'em do : some perhaps do not. 
But this you may depend upon ; he that is out of 
business is the worst judge in the world of him that 
is in : first, because he seldom knows anything of 
the matter : and, secondly, because he always 
desires to get his place. 

Gent. And so, sir you turn the tables upon the 
plantiff, and lay the fool and knave at his door. 

JEsop. If I do him wrong, I'm sorry for't. 
Let him examine himself, he'll find whether I do 
or not. {Exit. 

Gent. Examine ! — I think I have had enough 
of that already. There's nothing left, that I know 
of, but to give sentence : and truly I think there's 
no great difficulty in that. A very pretty fellow I 
am indeed ! Here am I come bellowing and roar- 
ing two hundred miles post to find myself an ass ; 
when with one quarter of an hour's consideration I 
might have made the self-same discovery, without 
going over my threshold. Well ! if ever they sen d 
me on their errand to reform the state again, I'll 
be damned. But this I'll do : I'll go home and 
reform my family if I can : them I'm sure I know. 
There's my father's a peevish old coxcomb : there's 
my uncle's a drunken old sot : there's my bro- 
ther's a cowardly bully : son Numphs is a lubberly 
whelp : I've a great ramping daughter, that stares 
like a heifer ; and a wife's that's a slatternly sow. 

[Exit. 



SCENE III. 

Enter a young, gay, airy Beau, who stands smiling 

contemptibly upon iEsop. 

JEsop. Well, sir, what are you ? 
Beau. A fool. 

JEsop. That's impossible ; — for if thou wer't 
thou'dst think thyself a wise man. 



392 



MSOP. 



Beau. So I do. — This is my own opinion — the 
t'other' s my neighbours'. [Walking airily about. 

Msop. {Gazing after him.} Have you any 
business with me, sir ? 

Beau. Sir, I have business with nobody ; plea- 
sure's my study. 

Msop. [Aside.] An odd fellow this ! — [Aloud.] 
Pray, sir, who are you ? 

Beau. I can't tell. 

Msop. Do you know who I am ? 

Beau. No, sir : I'm a favourite at court, and I 
neither know myself nor anybody else. 

Msop. Are you in any employment ? 

Beau. Yes. 

JEsop. Whatis't? 

Beau. I don't know the name on't. 

Msop. You know the business on't, I hope ? 

Beau. That I do — the business of it is — to — 
put in a deputy, and receive the money. 

Msop. Pray what may be your name ? 

Beau. Empty. 

Msop. Where do you live : 

Beau. In the side-box. 

JEsop. What do you do there ? 

Beau. I ogle the ladies. 

JEsop. To what purpose ? 

Beau. To no purpose. 

JEsop. Why then do you do it ? 

Beau. Because they like it, and I like it. 

JEsop. Wherein consists the pleasure ? 
' Beau. In playing the fool. 

JEsop. Pray sir, what age are you? 

Beau. Five-and-twenty, my body ; my head's 
about fifteen. 

JEsop. Is your father living ? 

Beau. Dead, thank God. 

JEsop. Has he been long so ? 

Beau. Positively yes. 

JEsop. Where were you brought up ? 

Beau. At school. 

JEsop. What school ? 

Beau. The school of Venus. 

Msop. Were you ever at the university ? 

Beau. Yes. 

Msop. What study did you follow there ? 

Beau. My bedmaker. 

Msop. How long did you stay ? 

Beau. Till I had lost my maidenhead. 

JEsop. Why did you come away ? 

Beau. Because I was expelled. 

Msop. Where did you go then ? 

Beau. To court. 

Msop. Who took care of your education there ? 

Beau. A whore and a dancing-master. 

Msop. What did you gain by them ? 

Beau. A minuet and the pox. 

Msop. Have you an estate ? 

Beau. I had. 

Msop. What's become on't ? 

Beau. Spent. 

Msop. In what ? 

Beau. In a twelvemonth. 

Msop. But how ? 

Beau. Why, in dressing, drinking, whoring, 
claps, dice, and scriveners. What do you think 
of me now, old gentleman ? 

.JEsop. Pray what do you think of yourself? 

Beau. I don't think at all : I know how to be- 
stow my time better. 

Msop. Are you married ? 



Beau. No — have you ever a daughter to bestow 
upon me ? 

Msop. She would be well bestowed ! 

Beau. Why, I'm a strong young dog, you old 
put, you : she may be worse coupled. 

Msop. Have you then a mind to a wife, sir ? 

Beau. Yaw, min Heer. 

Msop. What would you do with her ? 

Beau. Why, I'd take care of her affairs, rid 
her of all her troubles, her maidenhead, and her 
portion. 

Msop. And pray what sort of wife would you be 
willing to throw yourself away upon ? 

Beau. Why, upon one that has youth, beauty, 
quality, virtue, wit, and money. 

Msop. And how may you be qualified your- 
self, to back you in your pretensions to such a 
one ? 

Beau. Why, I am qualified with — a periwig— a 
snuffbox— a feather— a — smooth face — a fool's head 
— and a patch. 

Msop. But one question more : what settle- 
ments can you make ? 

Beau. Settlements ! — why, if she be a very great 
heiress indeed, I believe I may settle — myself upon 
her for life, and my pox upon her children for 
ever. 

Msop. 'Tis enough ; you may expect I'll serve 
you, if it lies in my way. But I would not have 
you rely too much upon your success, because 
people sometimes are mistaken ; as for example — 

An ape there was of nimble parts „ 

A great intruder into hearts, 

As brisk, and gay, and full of air, 

As you, or I, or any here ; 

Rich in his dress, of splendid show, 

And with a head like any beau : 

Eternal mirth was in his face ; 

Where'er he went, 

He was content, 

So Fortune had but kindly sent 

Some ladies — and a looking-glass. 

Encouragement they always gave him, 

Encouragement to play the fool ; 

For soon they found it was a tool, 

Would hardly be sb much in love, 

But that the mumbling of a glove, 

Or tearing of a fan, would save him. 

These bounties he accepts as proof 
Of feats done by his wit and youth . 
He gives their freedom gone for ever, 
Concludes each female heart undone, 
Except that very happy one, 
To which he'd please to do the favour. 
In short, so smooth his matters went, 
He guess'd, where'er his thoughts were bent. 
The lady he must carry. 
So put on a fine new cravat, 
He comb'd his wig, he cock'd his hat, 
And gave it out he'd marry. 
But here, alas ! he found to's cost, 
He had reckon'd long without his host : 
For wheresoe'er he made the attack, 
Poor pug with shame was beaten back. 

The first fair she he had in chace. 
Was a young cat, extremely rich, 
Her mother was a noted witch; 
So had the daughter proved but civil, 
He had been related to the devil. 



SCENE III. 



^ESOP. 



393 



But when he came 
To urge his flame, 
She scratch'd him o'er the face. 

With that he went among the bitches, 
Such as had beauty, wit, and riches, 
And swore Miss Maulken, to her cost, 
Should quickly see what she had lost : 
But the poor unlucky swain 
Miss'd his shepherdess again ; 
His fate was to miscarry. 
It was his destiny to find, 
That cats and dogs are of a mind, 
When monkeys come to marry. 

Beau. 'Tis very well ; — 'tis very well, old spark ; 
I say 'tis very well. Because I han't a pair of plod 
shoes and a dirty shirt, you think a woman won't 
venture upon me for a husband. Why now to 
show you, old father, how little you philosophers 
know of the ladies — I'll tell you an adventure of a 
friend of mine. 

A band, a bob-wig, and a feather, 
Attack'd a lady's heart together ; 
The band in a most learned plea, 
Made up of deep philosophy, 
Told her, if she would please to wed 
A reverend beard, and take instead 
Of vigorous youth, 
Old solemn truth, 



With books and morals into bed, 
How happy she would be. 

The Bob he talk'd of management, 
What wondrous blessings heaven sent 
On care, and pains, and industry ; 
And truly he must be so free, 
To own he thought your airy beaux, 
With powder'd wigs and dancing shoes, 
Were good for nothing (mend his soul !) 
But prate, and talk, and play the fool. 

He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth, 
And that to be the dearest wife 
Of one who labour'd all his life, 
To make a mine of gold his own, 
And not spend sixpence when he'd done, 
Was heaven upon earth. 

When these two blades had done, d'ye see, 
The feather (as it might be me) 
Steps out, sir, from behind the screen, 
With such an air, and such a mien, 
Look you, old gentleman, in short, 
He quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport. 

It proved such sunshine weather, 
That you must know, at the first beck 
The lady leap'd about his neck, 
And off they went together. 

There's a tale for your tale, old dad, and so — 
serviteur ! [Exit. 



THE FALSE FRIEND, 

a ffiomrtig* 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Don FELrx de Cabrera, a Gentleman of Valencia. 

Don Pedro Osorio, "} 

Don Guzman de Torrellas, \Lovers o/Leonora. 

Don John de Alvarada, J 

Lopez, Servant to Don John. 



Galindo, Servant to Don Guzman. 

Leonora, Daughter to Don Felix. 
Isabella, her Friend, and Sister to Gvzmau. 
Jacinta, Maid to Leonora. 



SCENE,— Valencia. 



PROLOGUE. 



SPOKEN BY CAPT. GRIFFIN. 



You dread reformers of an impious age, 
You awful cat-a-nine tails to the stage, 
This once be just, and in our cause engage. 
To gain your favour, we your rules obey, 
And treat you with a moral piece to-day ; 
So moral, we're afraid 'twill damn the play. 

For though ye have long been leagued (as people 

tell) 
To reduce the power exorbitant of hell ; 
No troops you send, to abate it in this field, 
But leave us still exposed, to starve or yield. 
Your scouts indeed sometimes come stealing in, 
To observe this formidable camp of sin, 
And whisper, if we'll piously declare, 
What aids you then will send to help us through 

the war. 
To this we answer, We're a feeble state, 
And cannot well afford to love or hate, 
So should not meddle much in your debate. 
But since your cause is good, thus far we'll 

go, 
When Portugal declares, we'll do so too. 
Our cases, as we think, are much alike, 
And on the same conditions we should strike ; 
Send to their aid a hundred men-of-war, 
To ours a hundred squadrons of the fair ; 



Rig out your wives and daughters all around, 
(I mean who are fit for service, tight and sound) 
And for a proof our meaning is sincere, 
See but the ships are good, and if you fear 
A want of equipage, we'll man them here. 

These are the terms, on which you may engage 
The poet's fire, to batter from the stage. 
Useful ally ! whose friendship lets you in 
Upon the weak and naked side of sin ; 
Against your old attack, the foe's prepared, 
Well fortified, and always on his guard ; 
The sacred shot you send are flung in vain ; 
By impious hands, with insolent disdain, 
They're gather'd up, and fired at you again. 
Through baffled toils, and unsuccessful cares, 
In slaughter, blood, and wounds, and pious snares, 
Ye have made a Flanders war these fifteen hundred 

years. 
Change then your scheme, if you'd your foe annoy, 
And the infernal Bajazet destroy : 
Our aid accept, 

We have gentler stratagems which may succeed ; 
We'll tickle 'em, where you would make 'em bleed: 
In sounds less harsh we'll teach 'em to obey ; 
In softer strains the evil spirit lay, 
And steal their immorality away. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — Don John's Lodgings. 
Enter Don John beating Lopez. 

Lop. Hold, sir, hold ; there's enough in all con- 
science ; I'm reasonable, I ask no more ; I'm 
content. 

Don John. Then there's double content, you 
dog, and a brace of contents more into the bargain. 
Now is't well ? [Striking again and again. 



Lop. O mighty well, sir, you'll never mend it ; 
pray leave it as 'tis. 

Don John. Look you, you jackanapes, if ever I 
hear an offer at your impertinent advice again — 

Lop. And why, sir, will you stifle the most 
useful of my qualifications ? 

Don John. Either, sirrah, I pass for a very great 
blockhead with you, or you are pleased to reckon 
much upon my patience. 



SCENE 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



395 



Lop. Your patience, sir, indeed is great ; I feel 
at this time forty proofs on't upon my shoulders. 
But really, sir, I would advise you to — 

Don John. Again ! I can bear thee no longer. 
Here, pen and ink, I'll give thee thy discharge. 
Did I take you for a valet, or a privy-counsellor, 
sir? 

Lop. 'Tis confessed, sir, you took me but for 
humble employment ; but my intention was agree- 
ably to surprise you with some superior gifts of 
nature, to your faithful slave. I profess, my noble 
master, a most perfect knowledge of men and man- 
ners. Yours, gracious sir, (with all respect I 
speak it) are not irreprehensible. And I'm afraid 
in time, sir, I am indeed, they'll wriggle you into 
some ill-favoured affair, whence with all my under- 
standing I shall be puzzled to bring you off. 

Don John. Very well, sir. 

Lop. And therefore, sir, it is, that I (poor Lopez 
as I am) sometimes take leave to moralise.. 

Don John. Go, go, moralise in the market-place; 
I'm quite worn out. Once more, march. 

Lop. Is the sentence definitive ? 

Don John. Positive. 

Lop. Then pray let us come to account, and see 
what wages are due. 

Don John. Wages ! Refund what you have had, 
you rascal you, for the plague you have given me. 

Lop. Nay, if I must lose my money, then let 
me claim another right ; losers have leave to speak. 
Therefore advance, my tongue, and say thy plea- 
sure ; tell this master of mine, he should die with 
shame at the life he leads : so much unworthy of a 
man of honour. Tell him — 

Don John. I'll hear no more. 

Lop. You shall indeed, sir. 

Don John. Here, take thy money and begone. 

Lop. Counters all ; adieu you glistering spangles 
of the world ! farewell ye tempters of the great ; 
not me ! Tell him — 

Don John. Stay. 

Lop. Go on. — Tell him he's worse among the 
women than a ferret among the rabbits ; at one and 
all, from the princess to the tripe-woman ; hand- 
some, ugly, old women and children, all go down. 

Don John. Very well. 

Lop. It is indeed, sir, and so are the stories you 
tell them to bring them to your matters. The 
handsome, she's all divinity to be sure ; the ugly, 
she's so agreeable, were it not for her virtue, she'd 
be overrun with lovers ; the light airy flipfiap, she 
kills him with her motions ; the dull heavy-tailed 
maukin melts him down with her modesty ; the 
scragged lean pale face has a shape for destruction ; 
the fat overgrown sow has an air of importance ; 
the tall awkward trapes with her majesty wounds ; 
the little short trundle-tail shoots a je-ne-sais-quoi: 
in a word, they have all something for him — and 
he has something for 'em all. 

Don John. And thus, you fool, by a general 
attack, I keep my heart my own ; lie with them 
that like me, and care not sixpence for them that 
don't. 

Lop. "Well said, well said, a very pretty amuse- 
ment truly ! But pray, sir, by your leave (cere- 
mony aside) since you are pleased to clear up into 
conversation, what mighty matters do you expect 
from boarding a woman you know is already heart 
and soul engaged to another ? 

Don John. Why I expect her heart and soul 



should disengage in a week. If you live a little 
longer with me, sirrah, you'll know how to instruct 
your next master to the purpose : and therefore 
that I may charitably equip you for a new service, 
now I'm turning you out of my own, I'll let you 
know, that when a woman loves a man best, she's 
in the most hopeful way of betraying him ; for 
love, like fortune, turns upon a wheel, and is very 
much given to rising and falling. 

Lop. Like enough. But as much upon the 
weathercock as the ladies are, there are some the 
wind must blow hard to fetch them about. When 
such a sturdy hussy falls in your honour's way, 
what account may things turn to then, an't please 
ye ? 

Don John. They turn to a bottle, you puppy. 

Lop. I find they'll always turn to something ; 
but when you pursue a poor woman only to make 
her lover jealous, what pleasure can you take in 
that ? 

Don John. That pleasure. 

Lop. Look you there again ! 

Don John. Why, sirrah, d'you think there's no 
pleasure in spoiling their sport, when 1 can't make 
my own ? 

Lop. Oh ! to a good-natured man, be sure there 
must ; but suppose, instead of fending and proving 
with his mistress, he should come to — a — parrying 
and thrusting with you ; what becomes of your 
joy then, my noble master ? 

Don John. Why do you think I'm afraid to 
fight, you rascal ? 

Lop. I thought we were talking of what we loved, 
not what we feared, sir. 

Don John. Sir, I love everything that leads to 
what I love most. 

Lop. I know, sir, you have often fought upon 
these occasions. 

Don John. Therefore that has been no stop to 
my pleasures. 

Lop. But you have never been killed once, sir ; 
and when that happens, you will for ever lose the 
pleasure of — 

Don John. [Striking him.] Breaking your 
head, you rascal, which will afflict me heartily. 
— [Knocking at the door.] See who knocks so 
hard. 

Lop. Somebody that thinks I can hear no better 
than you think I can feel. 

Enter Don Guzman. 

Don Guz. Don John de Alvarada, is he here ? 

Lop. There's the man. — {Aside.] Show me 
such another if you can find him. 

Don Guz. Don John, I desire to speak with you 
alone. 

Don John. You may speak before this fellow, 
sir ; he's trusty. 

Don Guz. 'Tis an affair of honour, sir. 

Don John. Withdraw, Lopez. 

Lop. [Aside.] Behind the door I will, and no 
farther. This fellow looks as if he came to save 
me a broken head. {Retires. 

Don Guz. I call myself Don Guzman de Tor- 
rellas, you know what blood I spring from ; I am 
a cadet, and by consequence not rich ; but I am 
esteemed by men of honour : I have been forward 
to expose myself in battles abroad, and I have met 
with applause in our feasts at home. 

Lop. So much by way of introduction. [Aside. 



396 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



Don John. I understand your merit, sir, and 
should be glad to do as much by your business. 

Don Guz. Give attention, and you'll be in- 
structed. I love Leonora, and from my youth have 
done so. Long she rejected my sighs, and despised 
my tears, but my constancy at last has vanquished. 
I have found the way to her heart, and nothing is 
wanting to complete my joy but the consent of 
her father, whom I cannot yet convince that the 
wants in my fortune are recompensed by the merits 
of my person. 

Lop. He's a very dull fellow indeed. [Aside. 

Don Guz. In the meanwhile the object of my 
vows is a sharer in my grief, and the only cordial 
we have is the pleasure of a secret conversation, 
through a small breach I have made in a thin par- 
tition that divides our lodgings. I trust you, Don 
John, with this important secret ; friend or enemy, 
you are noble, therefore keep it, I charge your 
honour with it. 

Lop. You could not put it in better hands. 

[Aside. 

Don Guz. But more, my passion for this lady is 
not hid ; all Valencia is acquainted with my wishes, 
and approves my choice. You alone, John de 
Alvarada, seeming ignorant of my vows, dare 
traverse my amour. 

Don John. Go on. 

Lop. These words import war ; lie close, Lopez. 

[Aside. 

Don Guz. You are the Argus of our street, and 
the spy of Leonora ; whether Diana, by her bor- 
rowed light, supplies the absence of the Astrea of 
day, or that the shades of night cover the earth 
with impenetrable darkness ; you still attend till 
Aurora's return, under the balcony of that adorable 
beauty. 

Don John. So. 

Don Guz. Wherever she moves, you still follow 
as her shadow, at church, at plays ; be her business 
with heaven or earth, your importunity is such, 
you'll share it. 

Lop. He is a forward fellow, that's the truth on't. 

[Aside. 

Don Guz. But what's still farther, you take the 
liberty to copy me ; my words, my actions, every 
motion is no sooner mine, but yours. In short, 
you ape me, Don; and to that point, I once de- 
signed to stab myself, and try if you would follow 
me in that too. 

Lop. No, there the monkey would have left you. 

[Aside. 

Don Guz. But to conclude. 

Don John. 'Tis time. 

Don Guz. My patience, Don, is now no more ; 
and I pronounce, that if henceforth I find you 
under Leonora's window, who never wished, fond 
man, to see you there, I by the ways of honour 
shall fix you in another station. I leave you to 
consider on't. Farewell- [Exit. 

Don John. Hold, sir, we had e'en as good do 
this honourable deed now. 

Re-enter Lopez. 

Lop. No, pray, sir, let him go, and may be you 
mayn't have occasion to do it at all. 

Don John. I thought at first the coxcomb came 
upon another subject, which would have embar- 
rassed me much more. 

Lop. Now this was a subject would have em- 
barrassed me enough in all conscience. 



Don John. I was afraid he came to forbid me 
seeing his sister Isabella, with whom I'm upon 
very good terms. 

Lop. Why now that's a hard case, when you 
have got a man's sister, you can't leave him his 
mistress. 

Don John. No, changeling, I hate him enough, 
to love every woman that belongs to him : and the 
fool has so provoked me by his threatening, that I 
believe I shall have a stroke at his mother before I 
think myself even with him. 

Lop. A most admirable way to make up accounts 
truly ! 

Don John. A son of a whore ! 'sdeath, I did 
not care sixpence for the slut before, but now I'll 
have her maidenhead in a week, for fear the rogue 
should marry her in ten days. 

Lop. Mum ; here's her father : I'll warrant 
this old spark comes to correct our way of living 
too. 

Enter Don Fjsux. 

Don Fel. Don John 

Don John. Don Felix, do I see you in my poor 
dwelling ? Pray, to what lucky accident do I owe 
this honour ? 

Don Fel. That I may speak to you without 
constraint, pray send away your servant. 

Lop. [Aside.] What the pox have I done to 
them, they are all so uneasy at my company I 

Don John. Give us chairs, and leave the room. 

Lop. [Aside.'] If this old fellow comes to 
quarrel with us too, he'll at least do us less harm. 

Don Fel. Won't you retire, friend ? 

[Looking behind. 

Don John. Begone, sirrah ! 

Lop. [Aside.] Pox take ye, you old prig you ! 
But I shall be even with you ! [Hides himself, 

Don Fel. You know me, sir ? 

Don John. I do, sir. 

Don Fel. That I call myself— 

Don John. Don Felix. 

Don Fel. That I am of the house of — 

Don John. Cabrera, one of the first of Valencia. 

Don Fel. That my estate is — 

Don John. Great. 

Don Fel. You know ^ that I have some repu- 
tation in the world. 

Don John. I know your reputation equals vour 
birth. 

Don Fel. And you are not ignorant, that heaven 
for the consolation of my grey hairs has given me 
an only daughter, who is not deformed. 

Don John. Beauteous as light. 

Don Fel. Well shaped, witty, and endowed 
with — 

Don John. All the good qualities of mind and 
body. 

Don Fel. Since you are satisfied with all this, 
hearken, I pray, with attention, to the business 
that brings me hither. 

Don John. I shall. 

Don Fel. We all know, Don John, some by their 
own experience, some by that of others, how nice 
a gentleman's honour is, and how easily tarnished ; 
an eclaircissement managed with prudence, often 
prevents misfortunes that perhaps might be upon 
the point of attending us. I have thought it my 
duty to acquaint you, that I have seen your designs 
upon my daughter. You pass nights entire under 
her window, as if you were searching an oppor- 



SCENE I. 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



397 



tunity to get into my house ; there is nobody in 
the town but has taken notice of your proceedings ; 
you give the public a subject for disadvantageous 
discourse ; and though in reality Leonora's virtue 
receives no prejudice by it, her reputation daily 
runs some risk. My years have taught me to judge 
right of things : and yet I have not been able to 
decide what your end can be ; you can't regard 
my daughter on a foot of gallantry, you know her 
virtue and my birth too well ; and for a wife you 
seem to have no thought, since you have yet made 
no demand to me : what then is your intention ? 
You have heard perhaps, I have hearkened to a 
gentleman of Toledo, a man of merit. I own I 
have, and I expect him daily here ; but, Don John, 
if 'tis that which hinders you from declaring in 
form, I'll ease you of a great deal of trouble, which 
the customs of the world impose upon these occa- 
sions, and in a word, I'll break with him, and give 
you Leonora. 

Lop. [^side.] Good. 

Don Fel. You don't answer me ! what is't that 
troubles you ? 

Don John. That I have been such a sot, old 
gentleman, to hear you with so much patience. 

[Rising. 

Don Fel. How, Don ! I'm more astonished at 
your answer than I was with your silence. 

Don John. Astonished ! why han't you talked 
to me of marriage ? He asks me to marry, and 
wonders what I complain of ! 

Don Fel. 'Tis well — 'tis well, Don John, the 
outrage is violent ! You insult me in your own 
house. But know, sir — [Rising. 

Don John. But know, sir, there needs no quarrel, 
if you please, sir ; I like your daughter very well ; 
but for marrying her — serviteur. 

Don Fel. Don Guzman de Torrellas has not less 
merit than you, Don. 

Don John. Agreed ; what then ? 

Don Fel. And yet I have refused him my 
daughter. 

Don John. Why then you have used him better 
than you have done me, which I take very unkindly. 

Don Fel. I have used you, sir — 

Don John. Used me, sir ! you have used me 
very ill, to come into my own house to seduce 
me. 

Don Fel. What extravagance ! 

Don John. What persecution ! 

Don Fel. Am I then to have no other answer ? 

Don John. Methinks you have enough in all 
conscience. 

Don Fel. Promise me at least you'll cease to 
love my daughter. 

Don John. I won't affront your family so far 
neither. 

Lop. Egad my master shines to-day. [Aside. 

Don Fel. Know, Don, that I can bear no more. 

Lop. If he could, I think there's no more to lay 
upon him. [Aside. 

Don Fel. If I find you continue to importune 
Leonora, I shall find a way to- satisfy my offended 
honour, and punish your presumption. 

Don John. You shall do what you please to me 
provided you don't marry me. 

Don Fel. Know, Alvarada, there are ways to 
revenge such outrageous affronts as these. 

Don John. I won't marry. 

Don Fel. 'Tis enough. [Exit. 



Lop. [Aside.'] So ; the old fellow's gone at last, 
and has carried great content along with him. 
Don John. Lopez. 

Re-enter Lopez. 
Lop. Sir — 

Don John. What dost think ? he would have 
married me ! 

Lop. Yes, he had found his man. But you have 
been even with him. 

Don John. What, thou hast heard us then ? 
Lop. Or I were no valet. But pray what does 
your honour intend to do now ? Will you con- 
tinue the siege of a place, where 'tis probable they 
will daily augment the fortifications, when there 
are so many open towns you may march into 
without the trouble of opening the trenches ? 

Don John. I am going, Lopez, to double my 
attacks : I'll beat up her quarters six times a-night, 
I am now downright in love ; the difficulties pique 
me to the attempt, and I'll conquer or I'll die. 

Lop. Why to confess the truth, sir, I find you 
much upon my taste in this matter ; difficulties 
are the rocambole of love, I never valued an easy 
conquest in my life. To rouse my fire, the lady 
must cry out (as softly as ever she can) Have a 
care my dear, my mother has seen us ; my brothers 
suspect me ; my husband may surprise us : oh, 
dear heart, have a care, I pray ! Then I play the 
devil : but when I come to a fair-one, where I may 
hang up my cloak upon a peg, get into my gown 
and slippers — 

Don John. Impudent rogue ! [Aside. 

Lop. See her stretched upon the couch in great 
security, with — My dear, come kiss me, we have 
nothing to fear ; I droop, I yawn, I sleep. 

Don John. Well, sir, whatever you do with your 
fair-one, I am going to be very busy with mine ; I 
was e'en almost weary of her, but Guzman and this 
old fellow have revived my dying fire ; and so 
have at her. 

Lop. 'Tis all mighty well, sir, mighty well, sir, 
as can be in the world. But if you would have the 
goodness to consider en passant, or so, a little 
now and then, about swords and daggers, and 
rivals and old fellows, and pistols and great guns, 
and such-like baubles, only now and then at 
leisure, sir, not to interrupt things of more con- 
sequence. 

Don John. Thou art a cowardly rascal, I have 
often considered that. 

Lop. Ay, that's true, sir, and yet a blunderbuss 
is presently discharged out of a garret window. 

Don John. Come, no more words ; but follow 
me. — How now ! what impertinence have we here 
now to stop me ? 

Enter Don Pedro. 

Lop. 'Tis Don Pedro, or I'm a dog. 

Don John. Impossible ! Don Pedro returned ! 

Don Ped. 'Tis I, my dearest friend ; I'm come 
to forget all the miseries of a long absence, in one 
happy embrace. [They embrace. 

Don John. I'm overjoyed to see you. 

Don Ped. Mine's not to be expressed. — What, 
friend Lopez here still ! how dost do, Lopez ? 
What, dost not know me ? 

Lop. As well as my father's seal, sir, when he 
sends me a bill of exchange. 

Don Ped. Just as he was, I find galliard still. 



398 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



ACT I. 



Lop. I find it very unwholesome to be other- 
wise, sir. 

Don John. You have then quitted the service 
in Flanders, I suppose. 

Don Ped. I have so, friend ; I have left the 
ensigns of Mars, and am listing myself in a softer 
militia. 

Don John. Explain, pray. 

Don Ped. Why, when your father's death obliged 
you to leave Brussels, and return hither to the 
plentiful fortune he left you, I stayed in Flanders, 
very triste for your loss, and passed three years in 
the trade of war. About two months since, my 
father writ to me from Toledo, that he was going 
to marry me very advantageously at Valencia. He 
sent me the picture of the lady, and I was so well 
pleased with it, that I immediately got my cong£, 
and embarked at Dunkirk ; I had a quick passage 
to the Groyne, from whence, by the way of Madrid, 
I am come hither with all the speed I could. I 
have, you must know, been two days in town, but 
I have lain incognito, that I might inform myself 
of the lady's conduct I'm to marry ; and I have 
discovered that she's served by two cavaliers of 
birth and merit. But though they have both given 
many proofs of a most violent passion, I have 
found for the quiet of my honour that this virtuous 
lady, out of modesty or prudence, has shown a 
perfect indifference to them and their gallantries ; 
her fortune is considerable, her birth is high, her 
manners irreproachable, and her beauty so great, 
that nothing but my love can equal it. 

Don John. I have hearkened to you, Don Pedro, 
with a great deal of attention, and Heaven's my 
witness I have a mighty joy in seeing you ; but 
the devil fetch me, it makes my heart bleed to hear 
you are going to be married. 

Don Ped. Say no more of that, I desire you, we 
have always been friends, and I earnestly beg we 
ever may be so ; but I am not come to ask counsel 
about my marriage, my party is taken, and my 
inquiries have so much heightened my desire, that 
nothing can henceforth abate it. I must therefore 
expect from you., dear friend, that you won't oppose 
it, but that you'll aid me in hastening the moment 
of my happiness. 

Don John. Since 'tis so impossible for you to 
resolve for your own good, I must submit to what 
you'll have me. But are not we to know the name 
of this piece of rarity, that is to do you this good 
turn ? 

Don Ped. You'll know it presently ; for I'm 
going to carry you to her house. 

Don John. You shall tell me at least who are 
her two gallants. 

Don Ped. One, they could not tell me his name ; 
t'other is — But before we talk any more of these 
affairs, can you let me dispose of Lopez till the 
return of a servant I sent three days ago to — 



Don John. Carry news of you to papa, I sup- 
pose. 

Don Ped. You are right ; the good man is 
thirty leagues off, and I have not seen him this 
six years. 

Don John. Lopez, do you wait upon Don 
Pedro. 

Lop. With all my heart — [Aside.] It's at least 
a suspension of boxes o' th' ear, and kicks o' the 
backside. 

Don Ped. Then, honest Lopez, with your mas- 
ter's leave, go to the new inn, the King of France 
on horseback, and see if my servant's returned ; I'll 
be there immediately, to charge thee with a com- 
mission of more importance. 

Lop. I shall perform your orders, sir, both to 
your satisfaction and my own reputation. [Exit. 

Don John. Very quaint. — Well, old acquaint- 
ance, we are going to be married then ? 'Tis re- 
solved : ha ! 

Don Ped. So says my star. 

Don John. The foolishest star that has said any- 
thing a great while. 

Don Ped. Still the same, I see ! or, more than 
ever, resolved to love nothing. 

Don John. Love nothing ! why, I'm in love at 
this very time. 

Don Ped. With what ? 

Don John. A woman. 

Don Ped. Impossible! 

Don John. True. 

Don Ped. And how came you in love with 
her? 

Don John. Why I was ordered not to be in love 
with her. 

Don Ped. Then there's more humour than love 
in't. 

Don John. There shall be what you please in't : 
but I shan't quit the gentlewoman till I have con- 
vinced her there's something in't. 

Don Ped. Mayn't I know her name? 

Don John. When you have let me into your 
conjugal affection. 

Don Ped. Pray stay here but till I have sent 
Lopez to my father-in-law : I'll come back and 
carry you with me in a moment. 

Don John. I'll expect you. 

Don Ped. Adieu, dear friend ; may I in earnest 
see you quickly in love. 

Don John. May I, without a jest, see you quickly 
a widower. — [Exit Don Pedro.] He comes, he 
savs, to marry a woman of quality that has two 
lovers. — If it should be Leonora ? — But why she ? 
There are many, I hope, in that condition in 
Valencia. — I'm a little embarrassed about it, how- 
ever. — 

Friendship, take heed ; if woman interfere, 
Be sure the hour of thy destruction's nea;. 

[Exit. 



SCENE 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



S99 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — Leonora's Apartment. 
Enter Leonora, Isabella, and Jacinta. 

Leo. Dear Isabella, come in. How I am plagued 
with this troublesome wretch ! — Jacinta, have you 
shut the outward gates ? 

Jac. I have, madam. 

Leo. Shut the window too ; we shall have him 
get in there by and by. 

I sab. What's this you are in such apprehensions 
of, pray ? 

Leo. Nothing worth naming. 

Isab. You dissemble : something of love in the 
case, I'll warrant you. 

Leo. The reverse on't ; 'tis aversion. My imper- 
tinent star has furnished me with a lover for my 
guard, who is never from my window ; he perse- 
cutes me to distraction ; I affront him fifty times 
a-day, which he receives with a bow down to the 
ground : in short, all I can do is doing nothing at 
all : he still persists in loving me, as much as I 
hate him. 

Isab. Have a care he don't get the better on't, 
for all that ; for when a man loves a woman well 
enough to persevere, 'tis odds but she at last loves 
him well enough to make him give it over. But I 
think I had as good take off my scarf; for since 
my brother Don Guzman knows I'm with you, he 
won't quarrel at my return for the length of my 
visit. 

Leo. If he should, I should quarrel with him, 
which few things else would make me do. But 
methinks, Isabella, you are a little melancholy. 

Isab. And you " little thoughtful. 

Leo. Pray tell me your affliction. 

Isab. Pray don't conceal yours. 

Leo. Why truly, my heart is not at ease. 

Isab. Mine, I fear, never will. 

Leo. My father's marrying me against my incli- 
nation. 

Isab. My brother is hindering me from marrying 
with mine. 

Leo. You know I love your brother, Don Guz- 
man. 

Isab. And you shall know, I'm uneasy for Don 
John de Alvarada. 

Leo. Don John ! 

Isab. The same. 

Leo. Have you any reason to hope for a return ? 

Isab. I think so. 

Leo. I'm afraid, my dear, you abuse yourself. 

Isab. Why? 

Leo. Because he is already in love with — 

Isab. Who? 

Leo. Me. 

Isab. I would not have you too positive in that, 
madam, for I am very sure that — 

Leo. Madam, I am very sure that he's the trou- 
blesome guest I just now complained of: and you 
may believe — 

Isab. Madam, I can never believe he's trouble- 
some to anybody. 

Leo. O dear madam ! But I'm sure I'm forced 
to keep my windows shut till I'm almost dead with 
heat, and that I think is troublesome. 



Isab. This mistake is easily set right, Leonora. 
Our houses join, and when he looks at my window, 
you fancy 'tis at yours. 

Leo. But when he attacks my door, madam, and 
almost breaks it down, I don't know how in the 
world to fancy 'tis yours. 

Isab. A man may do that to disguise his real 
inclination. 

Leo. Nay, if you please, believe he's dying for 
you. I wish he were ; then I should be troubled 
no more with him. — Be sure, Jacinta, you don't 
open a window to-night. 

Isab. Not while I'm here at least ; for if he 
knows that, he may chance to press in. 

Leo. Look you, Isabella, 'tis entirely alike to 
me who he's fond of ; but I'm so much your friend, 
I can't endure to see you deceived. 

Isab. And since I have the same kindness for 
you, Leonora, know in short, that my brother is so 
alarmed at his passion for me, that he has forbid 
him the street. 

Leo. Bless my soul ! and don't you plainly see 
by that he's jealous of him upon my account? 

Isab. [Smiling.] He's jealous of his honour, 
madam, lest he should debauch his sister. 

Leo. I say, he's jealous of his love, lest he should 
corrupt his mistress. 

Isab. But why all this heat ? If you love- my 
brother, why are you concerned Don John should 
love me ? 

Leo. I'm not concerned ; I have no designs upon 
him, I care not who he loves. 

Isab. Why then are you angry ? 

Leo. Why do you say he does not care for me ? 

Isab. Well, to content you then, I know nothing 
certain but that I love him. 

Leo. And to content you, I know nothing so 
certain, as that I neither love him, nor never can 
love him. And so I hope we are friends again. 

Isab. Kiss me then, and let us never be other- 
wise. 

Leo. Agreed. — [They kiss.] And now my dear, 
as my misfortune's nearest, I am first to be pitied. 
I am the most wretched woman living. My father 
every moment expects a gentleman from Flanders, 
to whom he has resolved to marry me. But neither 
duty, nor prudence, nor danger, nor resolution, nor 
all I can summon to my aid, can drive your brother 
from my heart ; but there he's fixed to ruin me. 

Jac. Madam, here's Don Guzman at the cham- 
ber-door ; he begs so passionately to come in, sure 
you can't refuse him. 

Leo. Heavens ! but does he consider to what he 
exposes me ? 

Jac. Madam, he considers nothing; if he did, 
I'd say he were an impudent fellow to pretend to 
be in love with you. 

Leo. Shall I venture, Isabella ? 

Isab. You know best. 

Enter Don Guzman. 

Jac. Marry, methinks he knows best of us all, 
for here he comes. 

Don iiuz. Forgive me, lovely Leonora ; 'tis the 
last time perhaps that I may beg your pity. My 



400 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



rival is not far ; excess of modesty is now our ruin. 
Break through it, for this moment you have left, 
and own to your old father how you love. He 
once did so himself ; our scene of son-ow may per- 
haps recal some small remembrance of his tender 
years, and melt him into mercy. 

Leo. Alas ! Don Guzman ! 

Jac. O heavens ! madam — > 

Leo. What's the matter? 

Jac. Y'are undone, here's your father. 

I sab. What an unlucky accident ! 

Jjeo. Has he seen Don Guzman ? 

Jac. Nay, the dense knows. 

Isab. Where shall he hide himself ? 

Jac. In the moon, if he can get thither. 

Enter Don Felix, 

Don Guz. I must e'en stand it now. 

Don Fel. Good news, my daughter, good news ; 
I come to acquaint you, that — How now ? what's 
the meaning of this ? Don Guzman in my daughter's 
chamber ! 

Don Guz. I see your surprise, sir, but you need 
not be disturbed ; 'twas some sudden business with 
my sister brought me here.' 

Don Fel. 'Tis enough, sir : I'm glad to find 
you here ; you shall be a witness that I know how 
to preserve the honour of my family. 

Don Guz. What mean you, sir? 

Don Fel. To marry Leonora this moment. 

Don Guz. How say you ? 

Don Fel. I say you shall have nothing left to 
ask of me. 

Don Guz. Is't possible ? O Heavens ! what joy 
I feel, 

Don Fel. Leonora, prepare your hand and heart. 

Leo. They both are ready, sir; and in giving 
me the man I love, you charge me with a debt of 
gratitude can never be repaid. 

Don Guz. [Kneeling.] Upon my knees, I thank 
the best of men, for blessing me with all that's 
blest in woman. 

Isab. How well that kind, that gentle look be- 
comes him ! 

Jac. Now methinks he looks like an old rogue ; 
I don't like his looks. [Aside. 

Enter Lopez. 

Lop. To all whom it may concern, greeting. 
Don Pedro Osorio acknowledging himself most 
unworthy of the honour intended him, in the per- 
son of the fair Leonora, addresses himself (by me 
his small ambassador) to the generosity of Don 
Felix, for leave to walk in and take possession. 

Don Fel. I had already given order for his 
entrance. 

Don Guz. What is't I hear ! 

Leo. Support me ! 

Isab. She faints. 

Don Guz. Look, tyrant, here, and if thou canst 
be cruel ! [Holding her. 

Don Fel. Bring in Don Pedro. [Exit Lopez. 

Don Guz. Barbarian ! 

Jac. Look up, madam, for heaven's sake ! since 
you must marry the fellow, e'en make the most 
on't. 

Leo. Oh! 

Enter Don Pedro and Don John. 

Jac. So — how d'ye do now ? Come, cheer up. 
See, here he comes. — By my troth, and a pretty 



turned fellow. — [Aside.} He'll set all to rights by 
to-morrow morning, I'll answer for him. 

Don Fel. Don Pedro, you are welcome; let me 
embrace you. 

Don Ped. In what terms, sir, shall I express 
what I owe you for the honour you do me ? and 
with what prospect of return can I receive this 
inestimable present ? — Your picture, madam, made 
what impression art could stamp, but nature has 
done more. What wounds your sex can give, or 
ours receive, I feel. 

Don Fel. Come son, (for I'm in haste to call 
you so) — but what's this I see ? Alvarada here ! 
Whence, sir, this insolence ; to come within my 
doors after you know what has passed? Who 
brought you here ? 

Don Ped. 'Twas I, sir. 

Don Fel. But do you know that he— 

Don Ped. Sir, he's the best of my friends. 

Don Fel. But do you know, I say, that he 
would — 

Don Ped. Hinder this marriage, 'tis true. 

Don Fel. Yes, because he designed — 

Don Ped. I know his design, sir ; 'tis to hinder 
all his friends from marrying. Pray forgive him. 

Don Fel. Then to prevent for ever his designs 
here, come hither, Leonora, and give Don Pedro 
your hand. 

Don John. Keep down, my kindling jealousy : 
I've something tortures me I never felt till now. 

[Aside. 

Don Ped. [To Leonora.] Why this backward- 
ness, madam ? Where a father chooses, a daughter 
may with modesty approve. Pray give me your 
hand. 

Don Guz. I cannot see it. [Turning from them. 

Don Fel. [Aside to Leonora.] Are you dis- 
tracted ? Will you let him know your folly ? Give 
him your hand, for shame ! 

Leo. Oh ! Don Guzman, I am yours. 

[Sighing, and giving her hand carelessly. 

Don Guz. Madam ! [Turning. 

Don Fel. What a fatal slip ! [Aside. 

Leo. 'Twas not to you T spoke, sir. 

Don Ped. But him it was she named, and thought 
on too, I fear. I'm much alarmed. [Aside. 

Don Fel. [ To Leonora. ] Repair what you have 
done, and look more cheerful on him. 

Leo. Repair what you have done, and kill me. 

Don Fel. Fool ! 

Leo. Tyrant ! 

Jac. A very humdrum marriage this. [Aside. 

Don Guz. Pray, sister, let's retire ; for I can 
bear this sight no longer. 

Isab. My dear, farewell ! I pity you indeed. 

Leo. I am indeed an object of your pity. 

[Exeunt Don Guzman and Isabella. 

Don Fel. Come daughter, come my son, let's 
to the church and tie this happy knot. 

Don Ped. I'll wait upon you, sir. 

[Exit Don Feltx, leading Leonora, J acinta following. 

Don John. I love her, and I love her still. 
Fate, do thy worst, I'll on. [Aside. 

Don Ped. To name another man, in giving me 
her hand ! [Aside. 

Don John. How am I racked and torn with 
jealousy ! [Aside. 

Don Ped. 'Tis doubtless so, Don Guzman has 
her heart. [Aside, 

Don John. [Aside.] The bridegroom's thought- 



SCENE I. 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



401 



ful. The lady's trip has furnished him with some 
matrimonial reflections. They'll agree with him at 
this time, perhaps, better than my company. I'll 
leave him. — [Aloud.] Don Pedro, adieu ! we shall 
meet again at night. 

Don Ped. Pray stay ; I have need of a friend's 
counsel. . • 

Don John. What, already ? 

Don Ped. Already. 

Don John. That's to say, you have already 
enough of matrimony. 

Don Ped. I scarce know what I have, nor am 
I sure of what I am. 

Re-enter Lopez. 

Lop. [ To Don Pedro.] An't please your honour, 
yonder's your man Bertrand just arrived ; his horse 
and he so tired of one another, that they both came 
down upon the pavement at the stable-door. 

Don Ped. [To Don John.] He brings news 
from my father. 

Lop. I believe he does, and hasty news too ; but 
if you stay till he brings it hither, I believe it will 
come but slowly. But here's his packet ; I suppose 
that will do as well as his company. [Gives a letter. 

Don Ped. [Reads to himself.] My dear friend, 
here's ill news. 

Don John. What's the matter ? 

Don Ped. My poor old father's dying. 

Don John. I'm mighty sorry for't ; 'tis a weighty 
stroke I must confess ; the burden of his estate will 
almost bear you down. But we must submit to 
Heaven's good will. 

Don Ped. You talk, Alvarada, like a perfect 
stranger to that tenderness methinks every son 
should feel for a good father. For my part, I've 
received such repeated proofs of an uncommon 
affection from mine, that the loss of a mistress 
could scarce touch me nearer. You'll believe me, 
when you see me leave Leonora a virgin till I have 
seen the good old man. 

Don John. That will be a proof indeed ; Hea- 
ven's blessing must needs fall upon so dutiful a 
son ; but I don't know how its judgments may deal 
with so indifferent a lover. 

Don Ped. Oh, I shall have time enough to 
repair this seeming small neglect. But before I 
go, pray a word or two with you alone. — Lopez, 
wait without. — [Exit Lopez.] You see, my dear- 
est friend, I am engaged with Leonora — perhaps I 
have done wrong ; but 'tis gone too far to talk or 
think of a retreat ; I shall go directly from this 
place to the altar, and there seal the eternal con- 
tract. That done, I'll take post to see my father, 
if I can, before he dies. 

I leave then here a young and beauteous bride ; 
But that which touches every string of thought, 
I fear, I leave her wishing I were Guzman. 
If it be so, no doubt he knows it well ; 
And he that knows he's loved by Leonora, 
Can let no fair occasion pass to gain her : 
My absence is his friend, but you are mine, 
And so the danger's balanced. Into your hands, 
My dear, my faithful Alvarada — [Embracing him} 
I put my honour, I put my life ; 
For both depend on Leonora's truth. 
Observe her lover, and — neglect not her. 
You are wise, you are active, you are brave and true. 
You have all the qualities that man should have 
For such a trust ; and I by consequence 



Have all the assurance man can have ; 
You'll, as you ought, discharge it. 

Don John. A very hopeful business you would 

have me undertake — keep a woman honest ! 

Udsdeath ! I'd as soon undertake to keep Porto - 
carero honest. Look you, we are friends, intimate 
friends ; — you must not be angry if I talk freely. 
Women are naturally bent to mischief, and their 
actions run in one continued torrent till they die. 
But the less a torrent's checked, the less mischief 
it does ; let it alone, perhaps, 'twill only kiss the 
banks and pass ; but stop it, 'tis insatiable. 

Don Ped. I would not stop it ; but could 
I gently turn its course where it might run, 
And vent itself with innocence, I would. 
Leonora of herself is virtuous ; 
Her birth, religion, modesty, and sense, 
Will guide her wishes where they ought to point. — 
But yet let guards be what they will, 
That place is safest that is ne'er attack'd. 

Don John. As far as I can serve you, in hinder- 
ing Guzman's approaches, you may command me. 

Don Ped. That's all I ask. 

Don John. Then all you ask is granted. 

Don Ped, I am at ease ; farewell ! 

Don John. Heaven bring you safe to us again ! 
— [Exit Don Pedro.] Yes, I shall observe her, 
doubt it not. I wish nobody may observe me ; for 
I find I'm no more master of myself. Don Guz- 
man's passion for her adds to mine ; but when I 
think on what Don Pedro'll reap, I'm fire and 
flame ! Something must be done ; what, let love 
direct, for I have nothing else to guide me. 

Re-enter Lopez. 

Lop. [Aside.] Don Pedro is mounting for his 
journey, and leaves a young, warm, liquorish hussy, 
with a watery mouth, behind him. — Hum ! if she 
falls handsomely in my master's way, let her look 
to her 'st — there he is. Doing what ? — think- 
ing ? That's new ; and if any good comes on't, 
that will be newer still. 

Don John. [Aside.] How i abuse the trust a 
friend reposes in me ? and while he thinks me 
waking for his peace, employ the stretch of thought 
to make him wretched ? 

Lop. Not to interrupt your pious meditations, sir, 

pray have you seen Seen what, fool ? Why he 

can't see thee. Egad, I believe the little blind bas- 
tard has whipped him through the heart in earnest. 

Don John. [Aside.] Pedro would never have 
done this by me. How do I know that? Why, he 
swore he was my friend. Well, and I swore I was 
his. Why then, if 1 find I can break my oath, why 
should not I conclude he would do as much by his ? 

Lop. [Aside.] His countenance begins to clear 
up : I suppose things may be drawing to a con- 
clusion. 

Don John. [Aside.] Ay, 'tis just so ; and I 
don't believe he would have debated the matter 
half so long as I have done : egad, I think I have 
put myself to a great expense of morality about it. 
I'm sure, at least, my stock's out : but I have 
a fund of love, I hope, may last a little longer. 
— [Observing Lopez.] Oh, are you there, sir? 

Lop. I think so, sir.— I won't be positive in 
anything. 

Don John. Follow me ; I have some business 
to employ you in you'll like. [Exit. 

Lon. I won't be positive in that neither. I guess 
D D 



402 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



what you are going about ; — there's roguery a-foot ! 
This is at Leonora, who I know hates him : nothing 
under a rape will do't. He'll be hanged ; and then 
what becomes of thee, my little Lopez ? Why, the 
honour to a — dingle dangle by him ; which he'll have 
the good-nature to be mighty sorry for. But I may 



chance to be beforehand with him : if we are not 
taken in the fact, they'll perhaps do him the honour 
to set a reward upon his head. Which if they do, 
Don, I shall go near to follow your moral example, 
secure my pardon, make my fortune, and hang you 
up for the good of your country. [Exit 



ACT III. 



SCENE I.— A Room in Don Felix's House. 
Enter Don Felix, Don Pedro, Leonora, and Jacinta. 

Don Fel. How, son ! obliged to leave us imme- 
diately, say you ? 

Don Ped. My ill fortune, sir, will have it so. 

Leo. [Aside.] What can this be ! 

Don Fel. Pray what's the matter ? You surprise 
me. 

Don Ped. This letter, sir, will inform you. 

Don Fel. [Reads.] My dear son, Bertrand 
has brought me the welcome news of your return, 
and has given me your letter ; which has in some 
sort revived my spirits in the extremity I am. 
I daily expect my exit from this world. ' Tis noiv 
six years since I have seen you ; I should be glad 
to do it once again before I die. If you will give 
me that satisfaction, you must be speedy. Heaven 
preserve you I — 'Tis enough. The occasion I'm 
sorry for, but since the ties of blood and gratitude 
oblige you, far be it from me to hinder you. Fare- 
well, my. sou ! may you have a happy journey, and 
if it be Heaven's will, may the sight of so good a 
son revive so kind a father ! I leave you to bid 
your wife adieu. {Exit. 

Don Ped. I must leave you, my lovely bride ; 
With bitter pangs of separation. [but 'tis 

Had I your heart to cheer me on my way, 
I might, with such a cordial, run my course : 
But that support you want the power to give me. 

Leo. Who tells you so ? 

Don Ped. My eyes and ears, and all the pains I bear. 

Leo. When eyes and ears are much indulged, 
Like favourite servants, they are apt to abuse 
The too much trust their master places in 'em. 

Don Ped. If I am abused, 
Assist me with some fair interpretation 
Of all that present trouble and disquiet, 
Which is not in my power to overlook, 
Nor yours to hide. 

Leo. You might, methinks, have spared 

My modesty ; and, without forcing me 
To name your absence, have laid my trouble there. 

Don Ped. No, no, my fair deluder, that's a veil 
Too thin to cover what's so hard to hide ; 
My presence, not my absence, is the cause. 
Your cold reception at my first approach, 
Prepared me for the stroke ; and 'twas not long 
Before your mouth confirm'd my doom : Don Guz- 
man, I am yours ! 

Leo. Is't, then, impossible the mouth should 
utter one name for another ? 

Don Ped. Not at all, when it follows the dic- 
tates of the heart. 

Leo. Were it even so, what wrong is from that 
heart received, where duty and where virtue are its 
rulers ? 



Don Ped. Where they preside our honour may 
be safe, yet our minds be on the rack. 

Leo. This discourse will scarce produce a 
remedy ; we'll end it therefore if you please, and 
leave the rest to time. Besides, the occasion of 
your journey presses you. 

Don Ped. The occasion of my delay presses 
you, I fear, much more ; you count the tedious 
minutes I am with you, and are reduced to mind 
me of my duty to free yourself from my sight. 

Leo. You urge this thing too far, and do me 
wrong. The sentiments I have for you are much 
more favourable than your jealousy suffers 'em to 
appear. But if my heart has seemed to lean an- 
other way, before you had a title to it, you ought 
not to conclude I shall suffer it to do so long. 

Don Ped. I know you have virtue, gratitude, 
and truth ; 
And therefore 'tis I love you to my ruin. 
Could I believe you false, contempt would soon 
Release me from my chains, which yet I can't 
But wish to wear for ever ; therefore, 
Indulge at le'ast your pity to your slave, 
'Tis the soft path in which we tread to love. 
I leave behind a tortured heart to move you : — 
Weigh well its pains, think on its passion too, 
Remember all its torments spring from you ; 
And if you cannot love, at least be true. [Exit. 

Jac. Now, by my troth, madam, I am ready to 
cry. He's a pretty fellow, and deserves better luck. 

Leo. I own he does : and his behaviour would 
engage anything that were unengaged. But, alas! 
I want his pity more than he does mine. 

Jac. You do ! Ndw, I'm of another mind. 
The moment he sees your picture he's in love with 
you ; the moment he's in love with you, he embarks ; 
and, like lightning, in a moment more he's here : 
where you are pleased to receive him with a Don 
Guzman, I am yours ! Ah, poor man ! 

Leo. I own, Jacinta, he's unfortunate, but still 
I say my fate is harder yet. The irresistible pas- 
sion I have for Guzman renders Don Pedro, with 
all his merit, odious to me ; yet I must in his 
favour make eternal war against the strength of 
inclination and the man I love. 

Jac. [Aside.] Um — If I were in her case, I 
could find an expedient for all this matter. But 
she makes such a bustle with her virtue, I dare not 
propose it to her. 

Leo. Besides, Don Pedro possesses what he 
loves, but I must never think on poor Don Guz- 
man more. [Weeping. 

Jac. Poor Don Guzman, indeed ! We han't 
said a word of the pickle he's in yet. Hark ! 
' somebody knocks — at the old rendezvous. It's he, 
[ on my conscience. 

Leo. Let's be gone; I must think of him no more. 



THE FALSE FHIEND. 



403 



Jac. Yes, let's be gone ; but let's know whether 
'tis he or not first. 

Leo. No, Jacinta ; I must not speak with him 
any more. — \_Sighing.~\ I'm married to another. 

Jac. Married to another ! well, married to an- 
other ; why, if one were married to twenty others, 
one may give a civil gentleman an answer. 

Leo. Alas ! whatwouldst thou have me say to him ? 

Jac. Say to him ! why, one may find twenty 
things to say to a man. Say, that 'tis true you are 
married to another, and that a — 'twould be a sin to 
think of anybody but your husband, and that a — 
you are of a timorous nature, and afraid of being 
damned ; and that a — you wouid not have him die 
neither ; that a — folks are mortal, and things 
sometimes come strangely about, and a widow's a 
widow, and — 

Leo. Peace, Levity ! — [Sighing.'} But see who 
'tis knocks. 

Jac. Who's there ? 

Isab. [Behind the scenes.'] 'Tis I, Isabella. 

Leo. Isabella ! What do you want, my dear ? 

Isab. Your succour, for Heaven's sake, Leonora. 
My brother will destroy himself. 

Leo. Alas ! it is not in my power to save him. 

Isab. Permit him but to speak to you, that pos- 
sibly may do. 

Leo. Why have not I the force to refuse him ? 

Don Guz. [Behind the scenes.] Is it you, I 
hear, my poor lost mistress ? Am I so happy 
once more to meet you where I so often have been 
blest? 

Jac. Courage, madam, say a little something to 
him. 

Don Guz. Not one kind word to a distracted 
lover ? 
No pity for a wretch you have made so miserable ? 

Leo. The only way to end that misery 
Is to forget we ever thought of happiness. 

Don Guz. And is that in your power ? Ah, 
You never loved like me ! [Leonora, 

Leo. How I have loved, to Heaven I appeal ! 
But Heaven does now permit that love no more. 

Don Guz. Why does it then permit us life and 
Are we deceived in its omnipotence ? [thought ? 
Is it reduced 
To find its pleasures in its creatures' pain ? 

Leo. In what, or where, the joys of heaven 
consist, 
Lies deeper than a woman's line can fathom ; 
But this we know, 

A wife must in her husband seek for hers, 
And therefore I must think of you no more. 
Farewell. [Exit. 

Don Guz. Yet hear me, cruel Leonora. 

Jac. It must be another time then, for she's 
whipped off now. All the comfort I can give you 
is, that I see she durst not trust herself any longer 
in your company. But hush, I hear a noise, get 
you gone, we shall be catched. 

Leo. [Within.] Jacinta! 

Jac. I come, I come, madam. [Exit 



SCENE W.—A Room in the same. 

Enter Lopez. 

Lop. If I mistake not, there are a brace of 

lovers intend to take some pains about madam, in 

her husband's absence. Poor Don Pedro ! Well, 



methinks a man's in a very merry mood that marries 
a handsome wife. When I dispose of my person, 
it shall be to an ugly one : they take it so kindly, 
and are so full of acknowledgment ; watch you, 
wait upon you, nurse you, humour you, are so 
fond, and so chaste. Or if the hussy has pre- 
sumption enough to think of being otherwise, away 
with her into the mountains fifty leagues off ; no- 
body opposes. If she's mutinous, give her dis- 
cipline ; everybody approves on't. Hang her ! 
says one, he's kinder than she deserves ; Damn 
her ! says another, why does not he starve her I 
But if she's handsome, Ah the brute ! cries one — 
Ah the Turk ! cries 'tother : Why don't she cuckold 
him ? says this fellow ; Why does not she poison 
him ? says that ; and away comes a packet of 
epistles to advise her to't. Ah, poor Don Pedro ! 
But enough. 'Tis now night, all's hush and still : 
everybody's a-bed, and what am I to do ? Why, 
as other trusty domestics, sit up to let the thief in. 
But I suppose he won't be here yet ; with the help 
of a small nap beforehand, I shall be in a better 
condition to perform the duty of a sentinel when I 
go to my post. This corner will just fit me. Come, 
Lopez, lie thee down, short prayers, and to sleep. 

[He lies down. 

Enter Jacinta, with a candle in her hand. 

Jac. So, I have put my poor lady to bed with no- 
thing but sobs, tears, sighs, wishes, and a poor pillow 
to mumble, instead of a bridegroom, poor heart ! I 
pity her ; but everybody has their afflictions, and 
by the beads of my grandmother, I have mine. 
Tell me, kind gentlemen, if I have not something 
to excite you ? Methinks I have a roguish eye, 
I'm sure I have a mettled heart. I'm soft, and 
warm, and sound, may it please ye. Whence comes 
it then, this rascal Lopez, who now has been two 
hours in the family, has not yet thought it worth 
his while to make one motion towards me ? Not 
that the blockhead's charms have moved me, but 
I'm angry mine han't been able to move him. I 
doubt I must begin with the lubber ; my reputa- 
tion's at stake upon't, and I must rouse the drone 
somehow. 

Lop. [Rubbing his eyes, and coming on.] What 
a damned condition is that of a valet ! No sooner 
do I, in comfortable slumber, close my eyes, but 
methinks my master's upon me, with fifty slaps o' 
th' back, for making him wait in the street. I have 
his orders to let him in here to-night, and so I had 
e'en— who's that ?— Jacinta !— Yes. A caterwaul- 
ing ! — like enough. 

Jac. The fellow's there ; I had best not lose 
the occasion. [Aside. 

Lop. The slut's handsome ; I begin to kindle. 
But if my master should be at the door — why there 
let him be till the matter's over. [Aside. 

Jac. Shall I advance ? [Aside. 

Lop. Shall I venture ? [Aside. 

Jac. How severe a look he has ! [Aside. 

Lop. She seems very reserved. [Aside. 

Jac. If he should put the negative upon me. 

[Aside. 

Lop. She seems a woman of great discretion ; I 
tremble. [Aside. 

Jac. Hang it, I must venture. [Aside. 

Lop. Faint heart never won fair lady. [Aside. 

Jac. Lopez ? 

Lop. Jacinta ! 

D D 2 



404 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



Jac. O dear heart ! is't you ? 

Lop. Charming Jacinta ! fear me not. 

Jac. [Aside.] O ho ! he begins to talk soft — then 
let us take upon us again. 

Lop. Cruel Jacinta, whose mouth (small as it is) 
has made but one morsel of my heart. 

Jac. [Aside.] It's well he prevents me. I was 
going to leap about the rascal's neck. 

Lop. Barbare Jacinta, cast your eyes 
On your poor Lopez, ere he dies. 

Jac. [Aside.] Poetry too ! Nay then I have 
done his business. 

Lop. Feel how I burn with hot desire, 
Ah ! pity me, and quench my fire ; 
Deaf, my fair tyrant, deaf to my woes, 
Nay then, barbarian, in it goes. [Drawing a knife. 

Jac. Why how now, Jack-sauce ? why how now, 
Presumption ? What encouragement have I given 
you, Jack-a-lent, to attack me with your tenders ? 
I could tear your eyes out, sirrah, for thinking T 
am such a one. What indecency have you seen in 
my behaviour, impudence, that you should think 
me for your beastly turn, you goat you ? 

Lop. Patience, my much offended goddess, 'tis 
honourably I would share your bed. 

Jac. Peace, I say — Mr. Liquorish. I, for whom 
the most successful cavaliers employ their sighs in 
vain, shall I look down upon a crawling worm ? 
Pha ! — see that crop-ear there, that vermin, that 
wants to eat at a table would set his master's mouth 
a watering ! 

Lop. May I presume to make an humble meal 
upon what savoury remnants he may leave ? 

Jac. No. 

Lop. 'Tis hard ! 'tis wondrous hard ! 

Jac. Leave me. 

Lop. 'Tis pitiful, 'tis wondrous pitiful ! 

Jac. Begone ! I say 

Thus ladies 'tis, perhaps, sometimes with you ; 
With scorn you fly the thing which you pursue. 

[Aside. — Exit, 

Lop. 'Tis very well, Mrs. Flipflap, 'tis very well ; 
but do you hear — Tawdry, you are not so alluring 
as you think you are — Comb-brush, nor I so much 
in love ! — your maidenhead may chance to grow 
mouldy with your airs ; — the pox be your bedfellow! 
there's that for you. — Come, let's think no more 
on't, sailors must meet with storms ; my master's 
going to sea too. He may chance to fare no better 
with the lady than I have done with her Abigail : 
there may be foul weather there too. I reckon at 
present he may be lying by under a mizen at the 
street-door, I think it rains too for his comfort. 
What if I should leave him there an hour or two 
in fresco, and try to work off the amour that way? 
No ; people will be physicked their own way. But 
perhaps I might save his life by't — yes, and have 
my bones broke for being so officious ; therefore, if 
you are at the door, Don John, walk in and take 
your fortune. [Opens the door. 

Enter Don John. 

Don John. Hist ! hist ! 
Lop. Hist ! hist ! 
Don John. Lopez ! 

Lop. [Aside.] The devil !— [Aloud.] Tread 
softly. 

Don John. Are they all asleep ? 

Lop. Dead. 

Don John. Enough ; shut the door. 



Lop. 'Tis done. 

Don John. Now begone. 

Lop. What ! shut the door first, and then be- 
gone ? Now, methinks, I might as well have gone 
first, and then shut the door. 

Don John. I bid you begone, you dog you ! do 
you find the way. 

Lop. [Aside.] Stark mad, and always so when 
a woman's in chase. — [Aloud.] But, sir, will you 
keep your chief minister out of the secrets of your 
state ? Pray let me know what this night's work 
is to be. 

Don John, No questions, but march. 

Lop. Very well. — [Goes to the door, and returns.] 
But, sir, shall I stay for you in the street ? 

Don John. No, nor stir out of the house. 

Lop. So. Well, sir, I'll do just as you have 
ordered me ; I'll be gone, and I'll stay ; and I'll 
march, and I won't stir, and — just as you say, sir. 

Don John. I see you are afraid, you rascal you. 

Lop. Passably. 

Don John. Well, be it so ; but you shan't leave 
the house, sir ; therefore begone to your hogstye, 
and wait further orders. 

Lop. [Aside.] But first I'll know how you 
intend to dispose of yourself. 

[Conceals himself behind the door. 

Don John. All's hush and still ; and I am at the 
point of being a happy — villain. That though 
comes uninvited : — then like an uninvited guest 
let it be treated : begone, intruder ! Leonora's 
charms turn vice to virtue, treason into truth ; 
nature, who has made her the supreme object of 
our desires, must needs have designed her the 
regulator of our morals. Whatever points at her, is 
pointed right. We are all her due, mankind's the 
dower which heaven has settled on her ; and he's the 
villain that would rob her of her tribute. I there- 
fore, as in duty bound, will in, and pay her mine. 

Lop. [Aside.] There he goes, i'faith ; he 
seemed as if he had a qualm just now ; but he 
never goes without a dram of conscience-water 
about him, to set matters right again. 

Don John. This is her door, 'tis locked ; but I 
have a smith about me will make her staple fly. 

[Pulls out some irons, and forces the lock. 

Lop. [Aside.] Hark! hark! if he is not equip- 
ped for a housebreaker too. Very well, he has 
provided two strings to his bow ; if he 'scapes the 
rape, he may be hanged upon the burglary. 

Don John. There, 'tis done. So. — No watch- 
light burning ? — [Peeping into her chamber.] All 
in darkness ? so much the better, 'twill save a 
great deal of blushing on both sides. Methinks I 
feel myself mighty modest, I tremble too ; that's 
not proper at this time. Be firm, my courage, I 
have business for thee. — So — how am I now ? — 
pretty well. Then by your leave, Don Pedro, I 
must supply your neglect. You should not have 
married till you were ready for consummation ; a 
maidenhead ought no more to lie upon a hand- 
some bride, than an impeachment upon an inno- 
cent minister. [Exit into the chamber. 

Lop. [Coming forwards.] Well done, well 
done ; Gad a-marcy, my little Judas ! Unfortunate 
Don Pedro ! thou hast left thy purse in the hands 
of a robber ; and while thou art galloping to pay the 
last duty to thy father, he's at least upon the trot 
to pay the first to thy wife. Ah, the traitor ! 
What a capilotade of damnation will there be 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



405 



cooked up for hini ! But softly : let's lay our ear 
to the door, and pick some curiosities. — I hear no 
noise.— rThere's no light ; we shall have him blun- 
der where he should not do, by and by. — Commit 
a rape upon her tea table perhaps, break all her 
china, and then she'll be sure to hang him. But 
hark !— now I hear — nothing ; she does not say a 
word ; she sleeps curiously. — How if she should 
take it all for a dream now ? or her virtue should be 
fallen into an apoplex ? — Where the pox will all 
this end ? 

Leo. [ Within.] Jacinta ! Beatrix ! Fernandes ! 
Murder ! murder ! help ! help ! help ! 

Lop. Now the play begins ; it opens finely, 

fjeo. [Within.'] Father! Alphonso ! Save 
me ! O save me ! 

Leo. Comedy or tragedy for a ducat ! for fear of 
the latter, decamp Lopez. [Exit. 



SCENE III. — Leonora's Bedchamber. 

Leonora discovered in a gown, holding Don John by the 
sleeve. 

Leo. Whoever you are, villain, you shan't escape 
me ; and though your efforts have been in vain, 
you shan't fail to receive the recompense of your 
attempt. — Help, ho, help there ! help ! 

[Don John breaks from her, but can't find the door* 

Don John. [Aside.] 'Sdeath, I shall be un- 
done ! where is this damned door ? 

Leo. He'll get away : a light there, quickly ! 

Enter Don Guzman with his sword drawn. 

Don Guz. Where are you, fair angel ? I come 
to lose my life in your defence. 

Don John. [Aside.] That's Guzman's voice; 
the devil has sent him. But we are still in the 
dark ; I have one tour yet, impudence be my 
aid. — [Aloud.] Lights there, ho ! Where is the 
villain that durst attempt the virtuous Leonora ? 

Don Guz, His life shall make her satisfaction. 

Don John. Or mine shall fall in his pursuit. 

Don Guz. 'Tis by my hands that she shall see 
him die. 

Don John. My sword shall lay him bleeding at 
her feet. 

Leo. [Aside.] What can this mean ? But here's 
lights at last, thank the just bounteous heaven. 

Don John. Enter with the light there ; but 
secure the door, kst the traitor 'scape my ven- 
geance. 

Enter Don Pedro with a light, he finds Leonora between 
them ,■ both their swords dravm. 

Leo. O Heavens ! what is't I see ? 

Don John. Don Pedro here ! 

Don Ped. [Aside.] What monstrous scene is 
this ! 

Don Guz. [Aside.] What accident has brought 
him here ? 

Don John. [Aside.] Now I am intrigued 
indeed. [Don Pedro steps back, and shuts the door. 

Don Ped. [Aside.] This mystery must unfold 
before we part. What torments has my fate pro- 
vided me ? Is this the comfort I'm to reap, to 
dry my tears for my poor father's death ? — 
[Aloud.] A*h, Leonora! 

Leo. [Aside.] Alas ! where will this end! 

[Falling into a chair. 



Don Ped. [Aside.] Naked! and thus attended 
at the dead of night ! — my soul is froze at what I 
see. Confusion sits in all their faces, and in large 
characters I read the ruin of my honour and 
my love. — [Aloud.] Speak, statues, if you yet 
have power to speak, why at this time of night you 
are found with Leonora ? — None speak ! — Don 
John, it is from you I ought to know. 

Don John. My silence may inform you. 

Don Ped. Your silence does inform me of my 
shame, but I must have some information more ; 
explain the whole. 

Don John. I shall. You remember, Don Pedro — ■ 

Don Ped. Be quick. 

Don John. You remember you charged me 
before you went — 

Don Ped. I remember well, go on. 

Don John. With the care of your honour. 

Don Ped. I did : despatch. 

Don John. Very well ; you see Don Guzman in 
this apartment, you see your wife naked, and you 
see me, my sword in my hand ; that's all. 

Don Ped. [Drawing upon Don Guzman.] 'Tis 
here then I am to revenge my wrongs. 

Don Guz. Hold! 

Don Ped. Villain, defend thyself ! 

Leo. O Heaven ! 

Don Guz. Yet hear me. 

Don Ped. What canst thou say ? 

Don Guz. The truth, as holy Heaven itself is 
truth. I heard the shrieks and cries of Leonora ; 
what the occasion was I knew not, but she repeated 
'em with so much vehemence, I found, whatever 
her distress might be, her succour must be sudden ; 
so leaped the wall that parts our houses, and flew 
to her assistance. Don John can, if he please, 
inform you more. 

Don Ped. [Aside.] Mankind's a villain, and 
this may be true ; 
Yet 'tis too monstrous for a quick conception. 
I should be cautious how I wrong Don John. 
Sure 'tis not right to balance. 
I yet have but their words against their words ; 
I know Don John for my friend, and Guzman 
for my rival. What can be clearer ? Yet hold : 
if Leonora's innocent, she may untangle all. — 
[Aloud.] Madam, I should be glad to know (if I 
have so much interest left) which way your evi- 
dence will point my sword ? 

Leo. My lord, I'm in the same perplexity with 
you. All I can say is this, one of 'em came to 
force me, t'other to save me : but the night con- 
founding the villany of the guilty with the gene- 
rosity of the innocent, I still am ignorant to which 
I owe my gratitude or my resentment. 

Don Guz. But, madam, did you not hear me 
cry I came to help you ? 

Leo. I own it. 

Don John. And did you not hear me threaten 
to destroy the author of your fears ? 

Leo. I can't deny it. 

Don Guz. What can there be more to clear me ? 

Don John. Or me ? 

Don Ped. Yet one's a villain still. — [Aside.] 
My confusion but increases : yet why confused ? 
It is, it must be Guzman. But how came Don 
John here ? Right. Guzman has said how he 
came to her aid, but Alvaiada could not enter but 
by treason. — [Aloud.] Then perish — 

Don Guz. Who? 



406 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



Don John. Who ? 

Don Ped. Just gods ! instruct me who. 

[Knocking at the door. 

Don Fel. [ Within.} Let me in, open the door ! 

Leo. 'Tis my father. 

Don Ped. No matter, keep the door fast. — 
[Aside.] I'll have this matter go no further, till I 
can reach the depth on't. — [Aloud.'] Don Guzman, 
leave the house ; I must suspend my vengeance for 
a time. 



Don Guz. I obey you ; but I'll lose my life, or 
show my innocence. [Exit. 

Don Fel. [ Within.] Open the door ; why am I 
kept out ? 

Don Ped. Don John, follow me by this back 
way. — And you, Leonora, retire. [Exit Leonora. 

Don John. [Aside.] If Don Guzman's throat 
were cut, would not this bustle end ? — Yes. — Why, 
then, if his throat be not cut, may this bustle end 
me. [Exeunt 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Don Guzman's House. 
Enter Don Guzman and Galtndo. 

Don Guz. [Musing.] Galindo ! 

Gal. Sir! 

Don Guz. Try if you can see Jacinta ; let her 
privately know I would fain speak with her. 

Gal. It shall be done, sir. [Exit. 

Don Guz. Sure villany and impudence were 
never on the stretch before ! This traitor has 
racked 'em till they crack. To what a plunge 
the villain's tour has brought me ! Pedro's resent- 
ment must at last be pointed here. But that's a 
trifle ; had he not ruined me with Leonora, I easily 
had passed him by the rest. — What's to be done? 
Which way shall I convince her of my innocence ? 
The blood of him who has dared declare me guilty, 
may satisfy my vengeance, but not aid my love. 
No, I'm lost with her for ever — 

Enter Jacinta. 
Speak, is't not so, Jacinta ? Am I not ruin'd with 
the virtuous Leonora ? 

Jac. One of you, I suppose, is. 

Don Guz. Which dost thou think ? 

Jac. Why, he that came to spoil all ; who should 
it be? 

Don Guz. Prithee be serious with me if thou 
canst for one small moment, and advise me which 
way I shall take to convince her of my innocence, 
that it was I that came to do her service ? 

Jac. Why you both came to do her service, did 
not you ? 

Don Guz. Still trifling? 

Jac. No, by my troth, not 1 ! 

Don Guz. Then turn thy thoughts to ease me 
in my torment, and be my faithful witness to her, 
That Heaven and Hell and all their wrath I impre- 
cate, if ever once I knew one fleeting thought, that 
durst propose to me so impious an attempt. No, 
Jacinta, I love her well ; but love with that humi- 
lity, whatever misery I feel, 
My torture ne'er shall urge me on to seize, 
More than her bounty gives me leave to take. 

Jac. And the murrain take such a lover and his 
humility both, say I. Why sure, sir, you are not 
in earnest in this story, are you ? 

Don Guz. Why dost thou question it ? 

Jac. Because I really and seriously thought you 
innocent. 

Don Guz. Innocent ! what dost thou mean ? 

Jac. Mean ! why what should I mean ? I mean 
that I concluded you loved my lady to that degree j 
you could not live without her : and that the I 



thought of her being given up to another made 
your passion flame out like mount Etna. That 
upon this your love got the bridle in his teeth, and 
ran away with you into her chamber, where that 
impertinent spy upon her and you, Don John, 
followed, and prevented farther proofs of your 
affection. 

Don Guz. Why sure — 

Jac. Why sure, thus I thought it was, and thus 
she thinks it is. If you have a mind in the depth 
of your discretion to convince her of your innocence 
— may your innocence be your reward. I'm sure 
were I in her place, you should never have any 
other from me. 

Don Guz. Was there then no merit in flying to 
her assistance when I heard her cries ? 

Jac. As much as the constable and the watch 
might have pretended to — something to drink. 

Don Guz. This is all raillery ; 'tis impossible 
she can be pleased with such an attempt. 

Jac. 'Tis impossible she can be pleased with 
being reduced to make the attempt upon you. 

Don Guz. But was this a proper way to save 
her blushes ? 

Jac. 'Twas in the dark, that's one way. 

Don Guz. But it must look like downright 
violation. 

Jac. If it did not feel like it, what did that sig- 
nify ? Come, sir, waggery apart, you know I'm 
your servant, I have given you proofs on't. There- 
fore don't distrust me now if I tell you, this quar- 
rel may be made up with the wife, though perhaps 
not with the husband. In short, she thinks you 
were first in her chamber, and has not the worse 
opinion of you for it ; she makes allowance for your 
sufferings, and has still love enough for you, not 
to be displeased with the utmost proofs you can 
give, that you have still a warm remain for her. 

Don Guz. If this be true, and that she thought 
'twas me, why did she cry out to expose me ? 

Jac. Because at that time she did not think 'twas 
you. Will that content you ? And now she does 
think 'twas you, your business is to let her think 
so on ; for in a word, I can see she's concerned at 
the danger she has brought you into, and I believe 
would be heartily glad to see you well out on't. 

Don Guz. 'Tis impossible she can forgive me. 

Jac. Oons ! — Now Heaven forgive me, for I 
had a great oath upon the very tip of my tongue ; 
you'd make one mad with your impossibles, and 
your innocence, and your humilities. 'Sdeath, sir, 
d'you think a woman makes no distinction between 
the assaults of a man she likes and one she don't ? 
My lady hates Don John, and if she thought 'twas 



SCENE II. 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



407 



he had done this job, she'd hang him for't in her 
own garters ; she likes you, and if you should do 
such another, you might still die in your bed like 
a bishop for her. 

Don Guz. Well, I'll dispute no farther. I put 
myself into thy hands. What am I to do next ? 

Jac. Why, do as she bids you ; be in the way 
at the old rendezvous, she'll take the first occasion 
she can to speak to you ; and when you meet, do 
as I bid you, and instead of your innocent and 
humble, be guilty and resolute. Your mistress is 
now married, sir, consider that. She has changed 
her situation, and so must you your battery. At- 
tack a maid gently, a wife warmly, and be as rug- 
ged with a widow as you can. Good bye t'ye, sir. 

f Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. — Leonora's Apartment. 
Enter Don Pedro. 

Don Ped. In what distraction have I pass'd this 
night ! 
Sure I shall never close my eyes again. 
No rack can equal what I feel. 
Wounded in both my honour and my love ; 
They have pierced me in two tender parts. 
Yet could I take my just revenge, 
It would in some degree assuage my smart. 
Oh, guide me Heaven to that cordial drop ! — 
Hold ! a glance of light I think begins to — yes — 
right. When yesterday I brought Don John hither, 
was not Don Felix much disturbed ? — He was. And 
why ? — That may be worth inquiring. But some- 
thing more occurs. At my arrival in this city, 
Was I not told two cavaliers were warm 
In the pursuit of Leonora ? 

One I remember well they named ; 'twas Guzman : 
The other I am yet a stranger to. 
I fear I shall not be so long — 'Tis Alvarada ; 
O the traitor ! — yet I may wrong him much. I 
have Guzman's own confession that he passed the 
wall to come to Leonora. — Oh, but 'twas to her 
assistance. — 

And so it might, and he a villain still. 
There are assistances of various sorts. — 
What were her wants ? That's dark. — Butwhat- 
They were, he came to her assistance. [soe'er 

Death be his portion for his ready service ! 

Enter Don Felix. 

Don Fel. You avoid me, Don Pedro ; 'tis not 
well. Am I not your father, have you not reason 
to believe I am your friend ? 

Don Ped. I have. 

Don Pel. Why do you not then treat me like a 
father and a friend ? The mystery you make to me 
of last night's disturbance I take unkindly from 
you. Come tell me your grief, that if I can I may 
assuage it. 

Don Ped. Nothing but vengeance can give me 
ease. 

Don Fel. If I desire to know your wrongs, 'tis 
to assist you in revenging them. 

Don Ped. Know then, that last night in this 
apartment I found Don Guzman and Don John. 

Don Pel. Guzman and Alvarada ! 

Don Ped. Yes ; and Leonora almost naked be- 
tween them, crying out for aid. 

Don Pel. Were they both guilty ? 



Don Ped, One was come to force her, t'other 
to rescue her. 

Don FeL WTiich was the criminal ? 

Don Ped. Of that I yet am ignorant. They 
accuse each other. 

Don Fel. Can't your wife determine it ? 

Don Ped. The darkness of the night put it out 
of her power. 

Don Fel. But I perhaps may bring some light 
I have part in the affront : [to aid you. 

And though my arm's too old and weak to serve 

you, 
My counsel may be useful to your vengeance. 
Know then, that Don Guzman has a long time 
pursued m.y daughter ; and I as resolutely refused 
his suit : which however has not hindered him 
from searching all occasions to see and speak to 
her. Don John, on his side — 

Don Ped. Don John's my friend, and I am 
confident — 

Don Fel. That confidence destroys you. Hear 
! my charge, and be yourself his judge. He too has 
been a pressing suitor to my daughter. 

Don Ped. Impossible ! 

Don Fel. To me myself, he has owned his love 
to her. 

Don Ped. Good gods ! Yet still this leaves the 
mystery where it was ; this charge is equal. 

Don Fel. 'Tis true ; but yonder's one (if you 
can make her speak) I have reason to believe can 
tell us more. — Ho, Jacinta ! 

Enter Jacinta. 

Jac. Do you call me, sir ? 

Don Fel. Yes ; Don Pedro would speak with 
you. — [Aside to Don Pedro.] I'll leave you with 
her ; press her both by threats and promises, and 
if you find your wife in fault, old as I am, her 
father too, I'll raise my arm to plunge this dagger 
in her breast ; and by that fermete" convince the 
world, my honour's dearer to me than my child. 

{Exit, 

Don Ped. [Aside.] Heaven grant me power to 
stifle my rage, till 'tis time to let my vengeance 
fly ! — Jacinta, come near : I have some business 
with you. . 

Jac. [Aside.'] His business with me at this 
time can be good for nothing, I doubt. — [Aloud.] 
What commands have you, sir, for me ? for I'm 
not very well. 

Don Ped. What's your disorder ? 

Jac. A little sort of a something towards an ague, 
I think. 

Don Ped. You don't seem so ill but you may 
tell me — 

Jac. Oh, I can tell you nothing, sir, I assure you. 

Don Ped. You answer me before you hear my 
question. That looks as if you knew — 

Jac. I know that what you are going to ask 
me, is a secret I'm out at. 

Don Ped. [Offering her a purse.] Then this 
shall let thee into it. 

Jac. I know nothing of the matter. 

Don Ped. Come, tell me all, and take thy 
reward. 

Jac. I know nothing of the matter, I say. 

Don Ped. [Drawing his sword.] Speak ; or 
by all the flame and fire of hell eternal — 

Jac. O Lard ! O Lard ! O Lard ! 

Don Ped. Speak, or th'art dead. 



408 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



Jac. But if I do speak, shan't I be dead for all 
that? 

Don Ped. Speak, and thou art safe. 

Jac. Well— O Lard !— I'm so frighted !— But 
if I must speak then — O dear heart ! — give me the 
purse. 

Don Ped, There. 

Jac. Why truly, between a purse in one's hand — 
and — a sword in one's guts, I think there's little 
room left for debate. 

Don Ped. Come, begin, I'm impatient. 

Jac. Begin ! let me see ; where shall I begin ? 
at Don Guzman, I think. 

Don Ped. What of him ? 

Jac. Why he has been in love with my lady 
these six years. 

Don Ped. I know it, but how has she received 
him ? 

Jac. Received him ! Why — as young maids use 
to receive handsome fellows ; at first ill, afterwards 
better. 

Don Ped. [Aside.] Furies ! — [Aloud.] Did 
they ever meet ? 

Jac A little. 

Don Ped. By day or night ? 

Jac. Both. 

Don Ped. Distraction ! Where was their ren- 
dezvous ? 

Jac. Where they could not do one another 
much good. 

Don Ped. As how ? 

Jac. As through a hole in a wall. 

Don Ped. The strumpet banters me. — Be 
serious, Insolence, or I shall spoil your gaiety ; 
I'm not disposed to mirth. 

Jac. Why I am serious, if you like my story 
the better for't. 

Don Ped. [Aside.] How miserable a wretch 
am I ! 

Jac. I tell you there's a wall parts their two 
houses, and in that wall there's a hole. How the 
wall came by the hole, I can't tell ; mayhap by 
chance, mayhap by no chance ; but there 'tis, and 
there they use to prattle. 

Don Ped. And this is truth ? 

Jac. I can't bate you a word on't, sir. 

Don Ped. When did they meet there last ? 

Jac. Yesterday ; I suppose 'twas only to bid 
one another adieu. 

Don Ped. Ah, Jacinta, thou hast pierced my 
soul ! 

Jac. [Aside.] And yet I han't told you half I 
could tell you, my don. 

Don Ped. Where is this place you speak of ? 

Jac. There 'tis, if you are curious. 

Don Ped. When they would speak with one 
another, what's the call ? 

Jac. Tinkle, tinkle. 

Don Ped. A bell ? 

Jac. It is. 

Don Ped. Ring ! 

Jac. What do you mean, sir ? 
Don Ped. [Hastily.] Ring ! 
Jac. 'Tis done. [She makes the signal. 

Don Ped. [Aside.] I'll make use of her to 
examine him. — [Aloud.] Does he come ? 
Jac. Not yet. 
Don Ped. Pull again. 

Jac. You must give him time, sir ; my lady 
always does so. 



Don Ped. I hear something. 

Jac. 'Tis he. 

Don Guz. [ Within.] Who's there ? 

Don Ped. [Softly.] Say you are Leonora. 

[Dumb shoiv of her unwillingness, and his threatening. 

Jac. [Softly.] 'Tis Leonora. 

Don Guz. What are your commands, madam ? 
Is it possible so unfortunate a wretch as I can be 
capable of serving you ? 

[Don Pedro whispers Jacinta, who seems backward to 
speak. 

Jac. I come to ask you, how you could so far 
forget that infinite regard you have professed, to 
make an attempt so dangerous both to yourself and 
me ; and which, with all the esteem and love I have 
ever borne you, you scarce could hope I ever should 
forgive you. 

Don Guz. Alas, my hopes and fears were 
vanish'd too. 
My counsel was my love and my despair. 
If they advised me wrong, of them complain, 
For it was you who made 'em my directors. 

Don Ped. [Aside.] The villain owns the fact. 
It seems he thinks 
He has not much to fear from her resentment. 
Oh, torture ! 

Enter Leonora. 

Jac. [Aside.] So, she's here ; that's as I ex- 
pected : now we are blown up. 

Leo. [Aside, not seeing them.] If I don't mis- 
take, I heard Don Guzman's call. I can't refuse 
to answer it ; forgive me, gods, and let my woman's 
weakness plead my cause. — How ! my husband 
here ! Nay then — 

Don Ped. You seem disordered, madam ; pray 
what may be the cause ? 

Leo. [Confused.] I don't know really ; I'm not 
— I don't know that — 

Don Ped. You did not know that I was here, I 
guess. 

Leo. Yes I did, and — came to speak with you. 

Don Ped. I'm not at present in a talking 
humour, 
But if your tongue is set to conversation, 
There's one behind the wall will entertain you. 

Don Guz. But is it possible, fair Leonora, that 
you can pardon my attempt ? 

Don Ped. [To Leonora.] You hear him, ma- 
dam ; he dares own it to you. 

Leo. [Aside.] Jacinta winks ; I guess what 
scene they have been acting here. My part is now 
to play. — [To Don Pedro.] I see, sir, he dares 
own it : nor is he the first lover has presumed be- 
yond the countenance he ever has received. Pray 
draw near, and hear what he has more to say : it 
is my interest you should know the depth of all has 
ever passed between us. — 
I fain would know, Don Guzman, whether 
In the whole conduct of my life, you've known 
One step that could encourage you to hope 
I ever could be yours, 
But on the terms of honour which you sought me ? 

Don Guz. Not one. 

Leo. Why then should you believe I could 
Forgive the taking that by force which you 
Already were convinced 
I valued more the keeping than my life ? 

Don Guz. Had my love been as temperate as 
I with your reason had perhaps debated, [yours, 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



409 



But not in reason, but in flames, I flew 
To Leonora. 

Leo. If strong temptation be allow'd a plea, 
Vice, in the worst of shapes, has much to urge. 
No, 

Could anything have shaken me in virtue, 
It must have been the strength of "it in you. 
Had you shone bright enough to dazzle me, 
I blindly might have miss'd the path I meant 
To tread : but now you have clear' d my sight for 

ever. 
If therefore from this moment more you dare 
To let me know one thought of love, 
Though in the humblest style, expect to be 
A sacrifice to him you attempt to wrong. 
Farewell ! [.She retires from him. 

Don Guz. Oh, stay and hear me ! I have 
wronged myself, I'm innocent ; by all that's sacred, 
just, and good, I'm innocent ! 

Don Ped. [Aside."] What does he mean ? 

Don Guz. I have owned a fact I am not guilty 
of ; Jacinta can inform you, she knows I never — 

Jac. I know ! the man's mad. Pray be gone, 
sir, my lady will hear no more. — I'll shut him out, 
madam, shan't I ? 

Leo. I have no farther business with him. 

[Jacinta shuts up the hole. 
Enter Isabella hastily. 

Isah. O Heavens, Leonora, where are you ? — 
Don Pedro, you can assist me better. 

Leo. What's the matter ? 

Don Ped. What is it, madam, I can serve you in ? 

Lsab. In what the peace of my whole life con- 
sists, the safety of my brother. Don John's servant 
has this moment left me a letter for him, which I 
have opened, knowing there is an animosity of 
some time between 'em. 

Don Ped. Well, madam ! 

Isab. O dear, it is a challenge, and what to do 
I know not ! If I show it my brother, he'll imme- 
diately fly to the place appointed : and if I don't, 
he'll be accused of cowardice. One way I risk his 
life, t'other 1 ruin his honour. 

Don Ped. What would you have me do, madam ? 



Isah. I'll tell you, sir : I only beg you'll go to 
the place where Don John expects him ; tell him I 
have intercepted his letter, and make him promise 
you he'll send no more. By this generous chari y 
you may hinder two men (whose piques are on a 
frivolous occasion) from murdering one another r 
and by this good office you'll repay the small debt 
you owe my brother for flying last night to Leonora ? s 
succour ; and doubly pay the obligation you have 
to me upon the same occasion. 

Don Ped. What obligation, madam ? I am 
ignorant ; pray inform me. 

Isah. 'Twas I, sir, that first heard Leonora's 
cries, and raised my brother to her aid. Pray let 
me receive the same assistance from your prudence 
which you have had from my care and my brother's 
generosity. But pray lose no time. Don John 
is perhaps already on the spot, and not meeting my 
brother, may send a second message, which may 
be fatal, 

Don Ped. Madam, be at rest ; you shall be 
satisfied, I'll go this moment. I'll only ask you 
first whether you are sure you heard my wife call 
out for succour, before your brother passed the 
waU? 

Isah. I did ; why do you ask that question ? 

Don Ped. I have a reason, you may be sure. — 
[Aside."} Just Heaven, I adore thee ! the truth at 
last shines clear, and by that villain Alvarada I'm 
betrayed. But enough, I'll make use of this occa- 
sion for my vengeance. — [To Isabella.] Where, 
madam, is it Don John is waiting ? 

Isah. But here, in a small field behind the 
garden. 

Don Ped. [Aside.] His blood shall do me reason 
for his treachery. 

Isah. Will you go there directly ? 

Don Ped. I will. Be satisfied. [Exit. 

Leo. You weep, Isabella. 

Isah. You see my trouble for a brother, for 
whom I would die, and a lover for whom I would 
live. They both are authors of my grief. 

Leo. They both are instruments of my mis- 
fortune. r Exeunt. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I.— A Field adjoining Don Felix's 
Garden. 
Enter Lopez. 
Lop. O ho, my good signor Don John, you are 
mistaken in your man ! I am your humble valet,. 
'tis true, and I am to obey you : but when you 
have got the devil in your body, and are upon your 
rantipole adventures, you shall Quixote it by your- 
self for Lopez. Yonder he is, waiting for poor 
Guzman, with a sword of a fathom and a half, a 
dagger for close engagement ; and (if I don't mis- 
take) a pocket pistol for extraordinary occasions. 
I think I am not in the wrong to keep a little out 
of the way. These matters will end in a court of 
justice, or I'm wrong in my foresight. Now that 
being a place where I am pretty well known, and 
not overmuch reputed, I believe 'tis best, neither 
to come in for prisoner nor evidence. But hold ; 
yonder comes another Toledo. Don Guzman I 
presume ; but I presume wrong ; 'tis — who is't ? 



Don Pedro, by all the powers ! What the pox does 
he here, or what the pox do I here ? I'm sure as 
matters stand, I ought to fly him like a creditor ; 
but he sees me, 'tis too late to slip him. 

Enter Don Pedro. 

Don Ped. How now, Lopez, where are you 
going ? 

Lop. I'm going, sir, I — I'm going — if you please 
I'm going about my business. 

Don Ped. From whence do you come ? 

Lop. Only, only, sir, from — taking the air a 
little, I'm mightily muddled with a whur — round 
about in my head for this day or two ; I'm going 
home to be let blood, as fast as I can, sir. 

Don Ped. Hold, sir, I'll let you blood here. — 
[Aside.} This rascal may have borne some part in 
this late adventure : He's a coward, I'll try to 
frighten it out of him. — [Aloud. ] You traitor you, 
y'are dead ! 

[Seizes Lopez by the collar, and draws his poniard. 



410 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



ACT V. 



Lop. Mercy, Don Pedro ! [Kneeling. 

Don Ped. Are you not a villain ? 

Lop. Yes, if you please. 

Don Ped. Is there so great a one upon earth ? 

Lop. With respect to my master ; no. 

Don Ped. Prepare then to die. 

Lop. Give me but time, and I will. But noble 
Don Pedro, just Don Pedro, generous Don Pedro, 
what is it I have done ? 

Don Ped. What if thou darest deny, I'll plunge 
this dagger deep into thy throat, and drive the 
falsehood to thy heart again. Therefore take heed, 
and on thy life declare ; didst thou not this last 
night open my doors to let Don Guzman in ? 

Lop. Don Guzman ! 

Don Ped. Don Guzman ? Yes, Don Guzman, 
traitor, him ! 

Lop. Now may the sky crush me, if I let in Don 
Guzman. 

Don Ped. Who did you let in then ? It wan't 
your master sure ! if it was him, you did your duty, 
I have no more to say. 

Lop. Why then if I let in anybody else, I'm a 
son of a whore. [Rising. 

Don Ped. Did he order you beforehand, or did 
you do't upon his knocking ? 

Lop. Why he ; I'll tell you, sir, he — pray put up 
that brilliant ; it sparkles so in my eyes, it almost 
blinds me. — [Don Pedro sheathes his poniard.] 
Thank you, sir. — Why, sir, I'll tell you just how 
the matter was, but I hope you won't consider me 
as a party ? 

Don Ped. Go on, thou art safe. 

Lop. Why then, sir, (when for our sins,) you 
had left us, says my master to me, Lopez, says he, 
go and stay at old Don Felix's house, till Don 
Pedro returns, they'll pass thee for his servant, and 
think he has ordered thee to stay there. And then 
says he, dost hear, open me the door by Leonora's 
apartment to-night, for I have a little business, 
says he, to do there. 

Don Ped. [Aside.] Perfidious wretch ! 

Lop. Indeed, I was at first a little wresty, and 
stood off ; being suspicious (for I knew the man) 
that there might be some ill intentions. But he 
knew me too, takes me upon the weak side, whips 
out a long sword, and by the same means makes 
me do the thing as you have made me discover it. 
— [Aside.] There's neither liberty nor property in 
this land, since the blood of the Bourbons came 
amongst us. 

Don Ped. Then you let him in, as he bid you ? 

Lop. I did : if I had not, I had never lived to 
tell you the story. Yes, I let him in. 

Don Ped. And what followed ? 

Lop. Why he followed. 

Don Ped. What ? 

Lop. His inclinations. 

Don Ped. Which way ? 

Lop. The old way ; to a woman. 

Don Ped. Confound him ' 

Lop. In short, he got to madam's chamber, and 
before he had been there long, (though you know, 
sir, a little time goes a great way in some matters) I 
heard such a clutter of small shot, murder ! murder ! 
murder ! rape ! fire ! help ! and so forth. — But hold, 
here he comes himself, and can give you a more 
circumstantial account of the skirmish. [Exit. 

Don Ped. 1 thank thee, Heaven, at last, for hav- 
ing pointed me to the victim I am to sacrifice. 



Enter Don John. 
Villain, defend thyself ! [Dratving. 

Don John. What do you mean ? 

Don Ped. To punish a traitor. 

Don John. Where is he ? 

Don Ped. In the heart of a sworn friend. 

Don John. [Aside.] I saw Lopez go from him ; 
without doubt he has told him all. — [Aloud.] Of 
what am I suspected ? 

Don Ped. Of betraying the greatest trust that 
man could place in man. 

Don John. And by whom am I accused. 

Don Ped. By me. Have at thy traitor's heart. 

Don John. Hold ! and be not quite a madman ! 
Pedro, you know me well. You know I am not 
backward upon these occasions, nor shall I refuse 
you any satisfaction you'll demand ; but first, I 
will be heard, and tell you, that for a man of sense, 
you are pleased to make very odd conclusions. 

Don Ped. Why, what is't possible thou canst 
invent to clear thyself ? 

Don John. To clear myself! Of what? I'm to 
be thanked for what I have done, and not re- 
proached. I find I have been an ass, and pushed 
my friendship to that point, you find not virtue in 
yourself enough to conceive it in another. But 
henceforward I shall be a better husband on't. 

Don Ped. I should be loath to find ingratitude 
could e'er be justly charged upon me : but after 
what your servant has confessed — 

Don John. My servant ! right, my servant ! the 
very thing I guessed. Fy, fy, Don Pedro ! is't 
from a servant's mouth a friend condemns a friend ? 
or can servants always judge at what their masters' 
outward actions point ? But some allowances I 
should make for the wild agitations you must needs 
be in. I'm therefore calm, and thus far pass all by. 

Don Ped. If you are innocent, Heaven be my 
aid, that I may find you so. But still — 

Don John. But still you wrong me, if you still 
suspect. Hear then, in short, my part of this 
adventure. In order to acquit myself of the charge 
you laid upon me in your absence, I went last 
night, just as 'twas dark, to view the several 
approaches to the house where you had left your 
wife ; and I observed not ifar from one of the back 
doors two persons in close eager conference. I was 
disguised, so ventured to pass near 'em, and by a 
word or two I heard, I found 'twas Guzman talk- 
ing to Jacinta. My concern for your honour 
made me at first resolve to call him to an immediate 
account. But then reflecting that I might possi- 
bly o'erhear some part of their discourse, and by 
that judge of Leonora's thoughts, I reined my 
passion in ; and by the help of an advancing but- 
tress, which kept me from their sight, I learned the 
black conspiracy. Don Guzman said, he had 
great complaint to make ; and since his honourable 
love had been so ill returned, he could with ease 
forgive himself, if by some rougher means he 
should procure what prayers, and tears, and sighs 
had urged in vain. 

Don Ped. Go on. 

Don John. His kind assistant closed smoothly 
with him, and informed him with what ease that 
very night she'd introduce him to her chamber. 
At last they parted, with this agreement, that at 
some overture in a wall, he should expect her to 
inform him when Leonora was in bed, and all the 
coast was clear. 



SCENE II. 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



411 



Don Ped. Despatch the rest. — [Aside.] Is't 
possible after all he should be innocent ! 

Don John. I must confess the resolution taken 
made me tremble for you. How to prevent it now 
and for ever was my next care. I immediately 
ordered Lopez to go lie at Don Felix's and to open 
me the door when all the family were in bed. He 
did as I directed him. I entered, and in the dark 
found my way to Leonora's apartment ; I found 
the door open, at which I was surprised. I thought 
I heard some stirring in her chamber, and in an 
instant heard her cry to aid. At this I drew, and 
rushed into the room ; which Guzman alarmed at, 
cried out to her assistance. His ready impudence, 
I must confess, at first quite struck me speechless ; 
but in a moment I regained my tongue, and loud 
proclaimed the traitor. 

Don Ped. Is't possible ! 

Don John. Yet more : your arrival hindering 
me at that time from taking vengeance for your 
wrong, I at this instant expect him here, to punish 
him (with heaven's righteous aid) for daring to 
attempt my ruin with the man, whose friendship I 
prefer to all the blessings Heaven and earth dis- 
pense. And now, Don Pedro, I have told you 
this, if still you have a mind to take my life, I shall 
defend it with the self-same warmth I intended to 
expose it in your service. [Draws. 

Don Ped. [Aside.'] If I did not know he was 
in love with Leonora, I could be easily surprised 
with what he has told me. But — but yet 'tis cer- 
tain he has destroyed the proofs against him ; and 
if I only hold him guilty as a lover, why must Don 
Guzman pass for innocent ? Good Gods, I am 
again returning to my doubts ! 

Don John. [Aside.] I have at last reduced him 
to a balance, 
But one lie more toss'd in will turn the scale. — 
[Aloud.] One obligation more, my friend, you 

owe me ; 
I thought to have let it pass, but it shall out. 
Know then, 

t loved, like you, the beauteous Leonora ; 
But from the moment I observed how deep 
Her dart had pierced you, 
I tore my passion from my bleeding heart, 
And sacrificed my happiness to yours. 
Now I've no more to plead ; if still you think 
Your vengeance is my due, come pay it me. 

Don Ped. Rather ten thousand poniards strike 
O Alvarada ! [me dead. 

Can you forgive a wild distracted friend ? 
Gods ! whither was my jealous frenzy leading me ? 
Can you forget this barbarous injury ? 

Don John. I can : no more. But for the 
future, think me what I am, a faithful and a zealous 
friend. Retire, and leave me here. In a few 
moments I hope to bring you farther proofs on't. 
Guzman I instantly expect ; leave me to do you 
justice on him. 

Don Ped. That must not be. My revenge can 
ne'er be satisfied by any other hand but this. 

Don John. Then let that do't. You'll in a 
moment have an opportunity. 

Don Ped. You mistake, he won't be here. 

Don John. How so ? 

Don Ped. He has not had your challenge. His 
sister intercepted it, and desired I'd come to pre- 
vent the quarrel. 

Don John. What then is to be done ? 



Don Ped. I'll go and find him out immediately. 

Don John. Very well: or hold — [Aside.] I 
must hinder 'em from talking, gossiping may dis- 
cover me. — [Aloud.] Yes : let's go and find 
him : or, let me see — ay — 'twill do better. 

Don Ped. What ? 

Don John. Why — that the punishment should 
suit the crime. 

Don Ped. Explain. 

Don John. Attack him by his own laws of war. 
— 'Twas in the night he would have had your 
honour, and in the night you ought to have his 
life. 

Don Ped. His treason cannot take the guilt from 
mine. 

Don John. There is no guilt in fair retaliation. 
When 'tis a point of honour founds the quarrel, 
the laws of swordmen must be kept, 'tis true : but 
if a thief glides in to seize my treasure, methinks 
I may return the favour on my dagger's point, as 
well as with my sword of ceremony six times as 
long. 

Don Ped. Yet still the nobler method I would 
choose ; it better satisfies the vengeance of a man 
of honour. 

Don John. I own it, were you sure you should 
succeed : but the events of combats are uncertain. 
Your enemy may 'scape you : you perhaps may 
only wound him ; you may be parted. Believe 
me, Pedro, the injury's too great for a punctilio 
satisfaction. 

Don Ped. Well, guide me as you please, so you 
direct me quickly to my vengeance. What do you 
propose ? 

Don John. That which is easy, as 'tis just to 
execute. The wall he passed, to attempt your 
wife, let us get over to prevent his doing so any 
more. 'Twill let us in to a private apartment by 
his garden, where every evening in his amorous 
solitudes he spends some time alone, and where I 
guess his late fair scheme was drawn. The deed 
done, we can retreat the way we entered ; let me 
be your pilot, 'tis now e'en dark, and the most 
proper time. 

Don Ped. Lead on ; I'll follow you. 

Don John. [Aside.] How many villanies I'm 
forced to act, to keep one secret ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Don Guzman's Apartment. 
Don Guzman discovered sitting. 

Don Guz. With what rigour does this unfaithful 
woman treat me ! Is't possible it can be she, who 
appeared to love me with so much tenderness ? 
How little stress is to be laid upon a woman's 
heart? Sure they're not worth those anxious 
cares they give. — [Rising.] Then burst my chains, 
and give me room to search for nobler pleasures. 
I feel my heart begin to mutiny for liberty ; there 
is a spirit in it yet, will struggle hard for freedom : 
but solitude's the worst of seconds. — Ho, Sancho I 
Galindo ! who waits there ? Bring some lights. 
Where are you ? 

Enter Galindo, rubbing his eyes, and drunk. 

Gal. I can't well tell. Do you want me, sir ? 

Don Guz. Yes, sir, I want you. Why am I 
left in the dark ? what were you doing ? 

Gal. Doing, sir ! I was doing — what one does 
when one sleeps, sir. 



412 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



ACT V. 



Don Guz. Have you no light without ? 

Gal. {Yawning.] Light ! — No, sir, — I have no 
light. I am used to hardship. I can sleep in the 
dark. 

Don Guz. You have been drinking, you rascal, 
you are drunk ! 

Gal. I have been drinking, sir, 'tis true, but I 
am not drunk. Every man that is drunk, has been 
drinking ; confessed. But every man that has 
been drinking, is not drunk. Confess that too. 

Don Guz. Who is't has put you in this condi- 
tion, you sot ? 

Gal. A very honest fellow : Madam Leonora's 
coachman, nobody else. I have been making a 
little debauch with Madam Leonora's coachman ; 
yes. 

Don Guz. How came you to drink with him, 
beast ? 

Gal. Only par complaisance, sir. The coach- 
man was to be drunk upon madam's wedding ; and 
I being a friend, was desired to take part. 

Don Guz. And so, you villain, you can make 
yourself merry with what renders me miserable ! 

Gal. No, sir, no ; 'twas the coachman was merry : 
I drank with tears in my eyes. The remembrance 
of your misfortunes, made me so sad, so sad, that 
every cup I swallowed, was like a cup of poison to 
me. 

Don Guz. Without doubt. 

Gal. Yes ; and to mortify myself upon melan- 
choly matters, I believe I took down fifty. Yes. 

Don Guz. Go fetch some lights, you drunken 
sot, you ! 

Gal. I will if I can find the door, that is to say. 
—The devil's in the door ! I think 'tis grown too 
little for me. — {Feeling for the door, and running 
against it.] Shrunk this wet weather, I presume. 

[Exit. 

Don Guz. Absence, the old remedy for love, 
must e'en be mine ; to stay and brave the danger 
were presumption : Farewell, Valencia, then ! and 
farewell, Leonora ! And if thou canst, my heart, 
redeem thy liberty ; secure it by a farewell eternal 
to her sex. 

Re-enter Galindo, ivith a candle. 

Gal. Here's light, sir. — [He falls and puts it 
out.] So ! 

Don Guz. Well done ! You sottish rascal, 
come no more in my sight. 

[Exit into an adjoining chamber. 

Gal. These boards are so uneven ! — You shall 
see now I shall neither find the candle — nor the 
candlestick ; it shan't be for want of searching 
however. — [Rising, and feeling about for the can- 
dle.] O ho, have I got you! Enough, I'll look for 
your companion to-morrow. 

Enter Don Pedro and Don John. 

Don Ped. Where are we now ? 

Don John. We are in the apartment I told you 
of— softly — I hear something stir. — Ten to one but 
'tis he. 

Gal. Don't I hear somewhat ? — No. — When one 
has wine in one's head, one has such a bustle in 
one's ears. 

Don Ped. [ To Don John.] Who is that talking 
to himself? 

Don John. 'Tis his servant, I know his voice, 
keep still. 



Gal. Well ; since my master has banished me 
his sight, I'll redeem by my obedience what I have 
lost by my debauch. I'll go sleep twelve hours in 
some melancholy hole where the devil shan't find 
me. Yes. [Exit. 

Don John. He's gone ; but hush, I hear some- 
body coming. 

Don Guz. Ho, there ! will nobody bring light ? 
[Behind the scene. 

Don Ped. 'Tis Guzman. 

Don John. 'Tis so, prepare. 

Don Ped. Shall I own my weakness ? I feel an 
inward check ; I wish this could be done some 
other way. 

Don John. Distraction all ! is this a time to 
balance ? Think on the injury he would have done 
you, 'twill fortify your arm, and guide your dagger 
to his heart. 

Don Ped. Enough, I'll hesitate no more ; be 
satisfied, hark ! he's coming. 

Re-enter Don Guzman, he crosses the stage. 

Don Guz. I think these rogues are resolved to 
leave me in the dark all night. [Exit. 

Don John. Now's your time ; follow him, and 
strike home. 

Don Ped. To his heart, if my dagger will reach 
it. [Exit. 

Don John. [Aside.] If one be killed, I'm satis- 
fied ; 'tis no great matter which. 
Re-enter Don Guzman, Don Pedro following him, with 
his dagger ready to strike. 

Don Guz. My chamber-door's locked, and I 
think I hear somebody tread. — Who's there ? — 
Nobody answers. But still I hear something stir. 
Holo there ! Sancho, are you all drunk ? Some 
lights here quickly. 

[Passes by the corner where Don John stands, and goes 
off the stage ; Don Pedro folloioing him. 

Don Ped. {Aside.] I think I'm near him now. 
— Traitor, take that ! my wife has sent it thee. 

[Stabs Don John. 

Don John. Ah, I'm dead ! 

Don Ped. Then thou hast thy due. 

Don John. I have indeed, 'tis I that have be- 
trayed thee. 

Don Ped. And 'tis I that am revenged on thee 
for doing it. 

Don John. I would have forced thy wife. 

Don Ped. Die then with the regret to have failed 
in thy attempt. 

Don John. Farewell, if thou canst forgive me — 

[Dies. 

Don Ped. I have done the deed : there's nothing 

left, but to make our escape. Don John, where 

are you? let's be gone, I hear the servants coming. 

[Knocking at the door. 

Lop. [ Without.] Open there quickly, open the 
door ! 

Don Ped. That's Lopez, we shall be discovered. 
But 'tis no great matter, the crime will justify the 
execution. But where's Don John ? — Don John, 
where are you ? 

[Knocking at the door. 

Lop. [ Without.] Open the door there, quickly ! 
— Madam, I saw 'em both pass the wall, the devil's 
in't if any good comes on't. 

Leo. [Without.] I am frightened out of my 
senses 1 — Ho, Isabella ! 

Don Ped. 'Tis Leonora. — She's welcome. — 
With her own eyes let her see her Guzman dead. 



SCENE II. 



THE FALSE FRIEND. 



413 



Enter Don Guzman, Leonora, Isabella, Jacinta, and 
Lopez, with lights. 

Don Ped. Ha ! what is't I see ? Guzman 
alive ? Then who art thou ? [Looking on Don John. 

Don Guz. Guzman alive! Yes, Pedro, Guz- 
man is alive. 

Don Ped. Then Heaven is just, and there's a 
traitor dead. 

Isab. [Weeping.] Alas, Don John ! 

Lop. [Looking upon Don John.] Buenas 
noches ! 

Don Guz. What has produced this bloody- 
scene ? 

Don Ped. 'Tis I have been the actor in't ; my 
poniard, Guzman, I intended in your heart. I 



thought your crime deserved it : but I did you 
wrong, and my hand in searching the innocent, has 
by heaven's justice been directed to the guilty. 
Don John, with his last breath, confessed himself 
the offender. Thus my revenge is satisfied, and 
you are cleared. 

Don Guz. Good Heaven, how equitable are thy 
judgments ! 

Don Ped. [To Leonora.] Come, madam, my 
honour now is satisfied, and if you please my love 
may be so too. 

Leo. If it is not, 

You to yourself alone shall own your smart, 

For where I've given my hand, I'll give my 
heart. [Exeunt omnes. 



EPILOGUE. 



SPOKEN BY MRS. OLDF1ELD. 



What say you, sirs, d'ye think my lady'll 'scape ? 
'Tis devilish hard to stand a favourite's rape. 
Should Guzman, like Don John, break in upon 

her, 
For all her virtue, heaven have mercy on her ! 
Her strength, I doubt, 's in his irresolution, 
There's wondrous charms in vigorous execution. 
Indeed you men are fools, you won't believe 
What dreadful things we women can forgive : 
I know but one we never do pass by, 
And that you plague us with eternally ; 



When in your courtly fears to disoblige, 

You won't attack the town which you besiege : 

Your guns are light, and planted out of reach : 

D'ye think with billets-doux to make a breach ? 

'Tis small-shot all, and not a stone will fly : 

Walls fall by cannon, and by firing nigh : 

In sluggish dull blockades you keep the field, 

And starve us ere we can with honour yield. 

In short— 

We can't receive those terms you gently tender, 

But storm, and we can answer our surrender. 



THE CONFEDERACY 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MONEYTRAP, } tW0 TiCh MOmy ScrivenerS - 

Dick Amlet, a Gamester, Son to Mrs. Amlet. 
Brass, his Companion, passes for his Valet-de- 

Chambre. 
Clip, a Goldsmith. 
Jessamin, Footboy to Clarissa. 
A Constable. 
CLARrssA, Wife to Gripe, an expensive luxurious 

Woman, a great Admirer of Quality. 



Araminta, Wife to Moneytrap, very intimate 

with Clarissa, of the same Humour. 
Corinna, Daughter to Gripe by a former Wife, 

a good Fortune, young, and kept very close 

by her Father. 
Flippanta, Maid to Clarissa. 
Mrs. Amlet, a Seller of all Sorts of private Affairs 

to the Ladies. 
Mrs. Cloggit, her Neighbour. 



SCENE, — London. 



PROLOGUE. 



SPOKEN BY A SHABBY POET. 



Ye gods ! what crime had my poor father done, 
That you should make a poet of his son ? 
Or is't for some great services of his, 
Y'are pleased to compliment his boy — with this ? 
IShowing his crown of laurel. 
The honour, I must needs confess, is great, 
If, with his crown, you'd tell him where to eat. 
'Tis well. — But I have more complaints — look here ! 
\_Showing his ragged coat. 
Hark ye : — D'ye think this suit good winter wear ? 
In a cold morning, whu — at a lord's gate, 
How you have let the porter let me wait ! 
You'll say, perhaps, you knew I'd get no harm, 
You'd given me fire enough to keep me warm. 
Ah!— 

A world of blessings to that fire we owe ; 
Without it I'd ne'er made this princely show. 
I have a brother too, now in my sight, 

[_Looking behind the scenes. 
A busy man amongst us here to-night : 



Your fire has made him play a thousand pranks, 
For which, no doubt, you've had his daily thanks ; 
He has thank'd you, first, for all his decent plays, 
Where he so nick'd it, when he writ for praise. 
Next for his meddling with some folks in black, 
And bringing — souse ! — a priest upon his back ; 
For building houses here to oblige the peers, 
And fetching all their house about his ears ; 
For a new play, he'as now thought fit to write, 
To soothe the town — which they — will damn to- 
night. 
These benefits are such', no man can doubt 
But he'll go on, and set your fancy out, 
Till for reward of all his noble deeds, 
At last like other sprightly folks he speeds : 
Has this great recompense fix'd on his brow 
At famed Parnassus ; has your leave to bow 
And walk about the streets — equipp'd — as I am 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — Covent Garden. 
Enter Mrs. Amlet and Mrs. Cloggit, meeting. 



Mrs. Ami. Good-morrow, neighbour ; good- 
morrow, neighbour Cloggit ! How does all at your 
house this morning ? 

Mrs. Clog. Thank you kindly, Mrs. Amlet, 
thank you kindly ; how do you do, I pray ? 

Mrs. Ami. At the old rate, neighbour, poor and 
honest ; these are har* times, good lack ! 



Mrs. Clog. If they are hard with you, what are 
they with us ? You have a good trade going, all the 
great folks in town help you off with your mer- 
chandise. 

Mrs. Ami. Yes, they do help us off with 'em 
indeed ; they buy all. 

Mrs. Clog. And pay — 

Mrs. Ami. For some. 

Mrs. Clog. Well, 'tis a thousand pities, Mrs. 
Amlet, they are not as ready at one as they are at 



3CBNE II. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



415 



t'other: for, not to wrong 'em, they give very good 
rates. 

Mrs. Ami. Oh, for that, let us do 'em justice, 
neighbour ; they never make two words upon the 
price, all they haggle about is the day of pay- 
ment. 

Mrs. Clog. There's all the dispute, as you say. 

Mrs. Ami. But that's a wicked one. For my 
part, neighbour, I'm just tired off my legs with 
trotting after 'em ; besides, it eats out all our profit. 
Would you believe it, Mrs. Cloggit, I have worn out 
four pair of pattens with following my old lady 
Youthful, for one set of false teeth, and but three 
pots of paint. 

Mrs. Clog. Look you there now ! 

Mrs. Ami. If they would but once let me get 
enough by 'em, to keep a coach to carry me a- 
dunning after 'em, there would be some conscience 
in it. 

Mrs. Clog. Ay, that were something. But now 
you talk of conscience, Mrs. Amlet, how do you 
speed amongst your city customers ? 

Mrs. Ami. My city customers ! now by my 
truth, neighbour, between the city and the court 
(with reverence be it spoken) there's not a — to 
choose. My ladies in the city, in times past, were 
as full of gold as they were of religion, and as 
punctual in their payments as they were in their 
prayers ; but since they have set their minds upon 
quality, adieu one, adieu t'other, their money and 
their consciences are gone, Heaven knows where. 
There is not a goldsmith's wife to be found in 
town, but's as hard-hearted as an ancient judge, 
and as poor as a towering duchess. 

Mrs. Clog. But what the murrain have they to 
do with quality ! why don't their husbands make 
'em mind their shops ? 

Mrs. Ami. Their husbands ! their husbands, 
sayest thou, woman ? Alack ! alack ! they mind 
their husbands, neighbour, no more than they do a 
sermon. 

Mrs. Clog. Good lack a-day, that women born 
of sober parents, should be prone to follow ill 
examples ! But now we talk of quality, when did 
you hear of your son Richard, Mrs. Amlet ? My 
daughter Flipp says she met him t'other day in a 
laced coat, with three fine ladies, his footman at 
his heels, and as gay as a bridegroom. 

Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ? Ah the rogue ! 
Well, neighbour, all's well that ends well ; but 
Dick will be hanged. 

Mrs. Clog. That were pity. 

Mrs. Ami. Pity indeed ; for he's a hopeful 
young man to look on ; but he leads a life — Well 
— where he has it, Heaven knows ; but they say, 
he pays his club with the best of 'em. I have seen 
him but once these three months, neighbour, and 
then the varlet wanted money ; but I bid him 
march, and march he did to some purpose ; for in 
less than an hour back comes my gentleman into 
the house, walks to and fro in the room, with his 
wig over his shoulder, his hat on one side, whist- 
ling a minuet, and tossing a purse of gold from one 
hand to t'other, with no more respect (Heaven 
bless us !) than if it had been an orange. Sirrah, 
says I, where have you got that ? He answers me 
never a word, but sets his arms akimbo, cocks his 
saucy hat in my face, turns about upon his ungra- 
cious heel, as much as to say kiss — and I've never 
set eye on him since. 



Mrs. Clog. Look you there now ; to see what 
the youth of this age are come to ! 

Mrs. Ami. See what they will come to, neigh- 
bour. Heaven shield, I say ; but Dick's upon the 
gallop. Well, I must bid you good-morrow ; I'm 
going where I doubt I shall meet but a sorry wel- 
come. 

Mrs. Clog. To get in some old debt, I'll war- 
rant you ? 

Mrs. Ami. Neither better nor worse. 

Mrs. Clog. From a lady of quality ? 

Mrs. Ami. No, she's but a scrivener's wife ; 
but she lives as well and pays as ill as the state- 
liest countess of 'em all. {Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II.— The Street before Gripe's House. 
Enter Brass. 

Brass. Well, surely through the world's wide 
extent, there never appeared so impudent a fellow 
as my school-fellow Dick. — Pass himself upon the 
town for a gentleman, drop into all the best com- 
pany with an easy air, as if his natural element 
were in the sphere of quality ; when the rogue had 
a kettle-drum to his father, who was hanged for 
robbing a church, and has a pedlar to his mother, 
— who carries her shop under her arm ! — But here 
he comes. 

Enter Dick Amlkt. 

Dick. Well, Brass, what news ? Hast thou 
given my letter to Flippanta ? 

Brass. I'm but just come : I han't knocked at 
the door yet. But I have a damned piece of news 
for you. 

Dick. As how ? 

Brass. We must quit this country. 

Dick. We'll be hanged first. 

Brass. So you will if you stay. 

Dick. Why, what's the matter ? 

Brass. There's a storm a coming. 

Dick. From whence ? 

Brass. From the worst point in the compass, 
the law. 

Dick. The law ! why what have I to do with the 
law ? 

Brass. Nothing ; and therefore it has something 
to do with you. 

Dick. Explain. 

Brass. You know you cheated a young fellow at 
picquet t'other day of the money he had to raise 
his company. 

Dick. Well, what then ? 

Brass. Why, he's sorry he lost it. 

Dick. Who doubts that ? 

Brass. Ay, but that is not all, he's such a fool 
to think of complaining on't. 

Dick. Then I must be so wise to stop his mouth. 

Brass. How? 

Dick. Give him a little back ; if that won't do, 
strangle him. 

Brass. You are very quick in your methods. 

Dick. Men must be so that will despatch busi- 
ness. 

Brass. Hark you, colonel, your father died in's 
bed? 

Dick. He might have done, if he had not been a 
fool. 



416 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



Brass. Why, he robbed a church. 

Dick. Ay, but he forgot to make sure of the 
sexton. 

Brass. Are not you a great rogue ? 

Dick. Or I should wear worse clothes. 

Brass. Hark you, I would advise you to change 
your life. 

Dick. And turn ballad-singer ? 

Brass. Not so neither. 

Dick. What then. 

Brass. Why, if you can get this young wench, 
reform, and live honest. 

Dick. That's the way to be starved. 

Brass. No, she has money enough to buy you a 
good place, and pay me into the bargain for help- 
ing her to so good a match. You have but this 
throw left to save you, for you are not ignorant, 
youngster, that your morals begin to be pretty 
well known about town ; have a care your noble 
birth and your honourable relations are not dis- 
covered too ; there needs but that to have you 
tossed in a blanket, for the entertainment of the 
first company of ladies you intrude into ; and then, 
like a dutiful son, you may daggle about with your 
mother, and sell paint : she's old and weak, and 
wants somebody to carry her goods after her. How 
like a dog will you look, with a pair of plod shoes, 
your hair cropped up to your ears, and a bandbox 
under your arm ! 

Dick. Why faith, Brass, I think thou art in the 
right on't ; I must fix my affairs quickly, or ma- 
dam Fortune will be playing some of her bitch- 
tricks with me : therefore I'D tell thee what we'll 
do ; we'll pursue this old rogue's daughter heartily ; 
we'll cheat his family to purpose, and they shall 
atone for the rest of mankind. 

Brass. Have at her then ! I'll about your busi- 
ness presently. 

Dick. One kiss— and success attend thee. [Exit. 

Brass. A great rogue ! — Well, I say nothing : 
but when I have got the thing into a good posture, 
he shall sign and seal, or I'll have him tumbled out 
of the house like a cheese. — Now for Flippanta. 

[Knocks at Gripe's door. 

Enter Flippanta. 

Flip. Who's that ? Brass ! 

Brass. Flippanta ! 

Flip. What want you, rogue's face ? 

Brass. Is your mistress dressed ? 

Flip. What, already ! Is the fellow drunk ? 

Brass. Why, with respect to her looking-glass, 
it's almost two. 

Flip. What then, fool ? 

Brass. Why then it's time for the mistress of 
the house to come down, and look after her 
family. 

Flip. Prithee don't be an owl. Those that go 
to bed at night may rise in the morning ! we 
that go to bed in the morning rise in the after- 
noon. 

Brass. When does she make her visits then ? 

Flip. By candle-light ; it helps off a muddy 
complexion ; we women hate inquisitive sunshine. 
But do you know that my lady is going to turn 
good housewife ? 

Brass. What, is she going to die ? 

Flip. Die ! 

Brass. Why, that's the only way to save money 
for her family. 



Flip. No ; but she has thought of a project to 
save chair-hire. 

Brass. As how ? 

Flip. Why all the company she used to keep 
abroad, she now intends shall meet at her own 
house. Your master has advised her to set up a 
basset-table. 

Brass. Nay, if he advised her to 't, it's right ; 
but has she acquainted her husband with it yet ? 

Flip. What to do? when the company meet, 
he'll see 'em. 

Brass. Nay, that's true, as you say ; he'll know 
it soon enough. 

Flip. Well, I must be gone ; have you any busi- 
ness with my lady ? 

Brass. Yes ; as ambassador from Araminta, I 
have a letter for her. 

Flip. Give it me. 

Brass. Hold ! — and as first minister of state to 
the colonel, I have an affair to communicate to 
thee. 

Flip. What is't ?— quick ! 

Brass. Why — he's in love. 

Flip. With what ? 

Brass. A woman — and her money together. 

Flip. Who is she ? 

Brass. Corinna. 

Flip. What would he be at ? 

Brass. At her, if she's at leisure. 

Flip. Which way ? 

Brass. Honourably. He has ordered me to 
demand her of thee in marriage. 

Flip. Of me ! 

Brass. Why, when a man of quality has a mind 
to a city fortune, wouldst have him apply to her 
father and mother ? 

Flip. No. 

Brass. No ; so I think. Men of our end of the 
town are better bred than to use ceremony. With 
a long periwig we strike the lady ; with a you- 
know-what we soften the maid ; and when the 
parson has done his job, we open the affair to the 
family. Will you slip this letter into her Prayer- 
Book, my little queen ? it's a very passionate one. 
It's sealed with a heart and a dagger ; you may see 
by that what he intends to do with himself. 

Flip. Are there any verses in it ? if not, I won't 
touch it. 

Brass. Not one word in prose ; it's dated in 
rhyme. [Flippanta takes the letter. 

Flip. Well, but have you brought nothing else ? 

Brass. Gad forgive me, I'm the forgetfullest 
dog ! — I have a letter for you too ; — here, 'tis in a 
purse, but it's in prose ; you won't touch it. 

Flip. Yes, hang it, it is not good to be too 
dainty. 

Brass. How useful a virtue is humility ! — Well, 
child, we shall have an answer to-morrow, shan't 
we? 

Flip. I can't promise you that ; for our young 
gentlewoman is not so often in my way as she 
would be. Her father (who is a citizen from the 
foot to the forehead of him) lets her seldom con- 
verse with her mother-in-law and me, for fear she 
should learn the airs of a woman of quality. But 
I'll take the first occasion. — See, there's my lady ; 
go in and deliver your letter to her. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



417 



SCENE ITI.— A Room in the same. 



Enter Clarissa, followed by Flippanta and 

Clar. No messages this morning from anybody, 
Flippanta ? Lard, how dull that is ! Oh, there's 
Brass ! — I did not see thee, Brass. What news 
dost thou bring ? 

Brass. Only a letter from Araminta, madam. 

Clar. Give it me. — Open it for me, Flippanta, 
I am so lazy to-day. [Sitting down. 

Brass. [Aside to Flippanta.] Be sure now 
you deliver my master's as carefully as I do this. 

Flip. Don't trouble thyself, I'm no novice. 

Clar. [ To Brass.] "Tis well ; there needs no 
answer, since she'll be here so soon. 

Brass. Your ladyship has no farther commands 
then ? 

Clar. Not at this time, honest Brass. — {Exit 
Brass.] Flippanta ! 

Flip. Madam. 

Clar. My husband's in love. 

Flip. In love ! 

Clar. With Araminta. 

Flip. Impossible ! 

Clar. This letter from her is to give me an 
account of it. 

Flip. Methinks you are not very much alarmed. 

Clar. No ; thou knowest I'm not much tor- 
tured with jealousy. 

Flip. Nay, you are much in the right on't, 
madam, for jealousy's a city passion ; 'tis a thing 
unknown amongst people of quality. 

Clar. Fy ! a woman must indeed be of a mecha- 
nic mould who is either troubled or pleased with 
anything her husband can do to her. Prithee 
mention him no more ; 'tis the dullest theme. 

Flip. 'Tis splenetic indeed. But when once 
you open your basset-table, I hope that will put 
him out of your head. 

Clar. Alas, Flippanta ! I begin to grow weary 
even of the thoughts of that too. 

Flip. How so ? 

Clar. Why, I have thought on't a day and a 
night already ; and four-and-twenty hours, thou 
knowest, is enough to make one weary of any- 
thing. 

Flip. Now, by my conscience, you have more 
woman in you than all your sex together : you 
never know what you would have. 

Clar. Thou mistakest the thing quite. I al- 
ways know what I lack, but I am never pleased 
with what I have. The want of a thing is per- 
plexing enough, but the possession of it is intoler- 
able. 

Flip. Well, I don't know what you are made 
of, but other women would think themselves blest 
in your case ; handsome, witty, loved by every- 
body, and of so happy a composure to care a fig 
for nobody. You have no one passion but that of 
your pleasures ; and you have in me a servant 
devoted to all your desires, let 'em be as extrava- 
gant as they will. Yet all this is nothing ; you can 
still be out of humour. 

Clar. Alas ! I have but too much cause. 

Flip. Why, what have you to complain of ? 

Clar. Alas ! I have more subjects for spleen 
than one. Is it not a most horrible thing that I 
should be but a scrivener's wife ? Come, don't 
flatter me ; don't you think nature designed me 
for something plus elevee 9 



Flip. Nay, that's certain ; but on t'other side, 
methinks, you ought to be in some measure con- 
tent, since you live like a woman of quality, though 
you are none. 

Clar. O fy ! the very quintessence of it is 
wanting. 

Flip. What's that ? 

Clar. Why, I dare abuse nobody : I'm afraid to 
affront people, though I don't like their faces ; or 
to ruin their reputations, though they pique me to 
it by taking ever sq much pains to preserve 'em : I 
dare not raise a lie of a man, though he neglects to 
make love to me ; nor report a woman to be a fool, 
though she's handsomer than I am. In short, I 
dare not so much as bid my footman kick the 
people out of doors, though they come to ask me 
for what I owe 'em. 

Flip. All this is very hard indeed. 

Clar. Ah, Flippanta, the perquisites of quality 
are of an unspeakable value ! 

Flip. They are of some use, I must confess ; 
but we must not expect to have everything. You 
have wit and beauty, and a fool to your husband : 
come, come, madam, that's a good portion for 
one. 

Clar. Alas ! what signifies beauty and wit, when 
one dares neither jilt the men nor abuse the women? 
'Tis a sad thing, Flippanta, when wit's confined ; 
'tis worse than the rising of the lights. I have 
been sometimes almost choked with scandal, and 
durst not cough it up for want of being a countess. 

Flip. Poor lady ! 

Clar. Oh ! liberty is a fine thing, Flippanta ; 
it's a great help in conversation to have leave to say 
what one will. I have seen a woman of quality, 
who has not had one grain of wit, entertain a whole 
company the most agreeably in the world, only 
with her malice. But 'tis in vain to repine ; I 
can't mend my condition till my husband dies ; so 
I'll say no more on't, but think of making the most 
of the state I am in. 

Flip. That's your best way, madam ; and in order 
to it, pray consider how you'll get some ready 
money to set your basset-table a-going ; for that's 
necessary. 

Clar. Thou sayest true ; but what trick I shall 
play my husband to get some I don't know : for 
my pretence of losing my diamond necklace has 
put the man into such a passion, I'm afraid he 
won't hear reason. 

Flip. No matter ; he begins to think 'tis lost in 
earnest : so I fancy you may venture to sell it, and 
raise money that way. 

Clar. That can't be, for he has left odious notes 
with all the goldsmiths in town. 

Flip. Well, we must pawn it then. 

Clar. I'm quite tired with dealing with those 
pawnbrokers. 

Flip. [Aside.] I'm afraid you'll continue the 
trade a great while, for all that. 

Enter Jessamin. 

Jes. Madam, there's the woman below that sells 
paint and patches, iron-bodice, false teeth, and all 
sorts of things to the ladies ; I can't think of her 
name. [Exit. 

Flip. 'Tis Mrs. Amlet ; she wants money. 

Clar. Well, I han't enough for myself, it's an 
unreasonable thing she shoul'd think I have any for 
her. 

E E 



418 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



Flip. She's a troublesome jade. 

Clar. So are all people that come a-dunning. 

Flip. What will you do with her ? 

Clar, I have just now thought on't. She's very- 
rich, that woman is, Flippanta ; I'll borrow some 
money of her. 

Flip. Borrow ! sure you jest, madam. 

Clar. No, I'm in earnest ; I give thee commis- 
sion to do it for me. 

Flip. Me ! 

Clar. Why dost thou stare, and look so ungainly ? 
don't I speak to be understood ? 

Flip. Yes, I understand you well enough ; but 
Mrs. Amlet— 

Clar. But Mrs. Amlet must lend me some mo- 
ney ; where shall I have any to pay her else ? 
" Flip. That's true ; I never thought of that truly. 
But here she is. 

Enter Mrs. Amlet. 

Clar. How d'you do ? how d'you do, Mrs. Am- 
let ; I han't seen you these thousand years, and 
yet I believe I'm down in your books. 

Mrs. Ami. Oh, madam, I don't come for that, 
alack ! 

Flip. Good-morrow, Mrs. Amlet. 

Mrs, Ami. Good-morrow, Mrs. Flippanta. 

Clar. How much am I indebted to you, Mrs. 
Amlet ? 

Mrs. Ami. Nay, if your ladyship desires to see 
your bill, I believe I may have it about me. — There, 
madam, if it ben't too much fatigue to you to look 
it over. 

Clar. Let me see it, for I hate to be in debt — 
[Aside] — where I am obliged to pay. — [Reads.] 
Imprimis, For bolstering out the Countess of 
Crump's left hip — Oh, fy ! this does not belong to 
me. 

Mrs. Ami. I beg your ladyship's pardon. I 
mistook, indeed ; 'tis a countess's bill I have writ 
out to little purpose. I furnished her two years 
ago with three pair of hips, and am not paid for 
'em yet. — But some are better customers than 
some. — There's your ladyship's bill, madam. 

Clar. [Reads.] For the idea of a new-invented 
commode. — Ay, this may be mine, but 'tis of a pre- 
posterous length. Do you think I can waste time 
to read every article, Mrs. Amlet ? I'd as lief read 
a sermon. 

Mrs. Ami. Alack-a-day, there's no need of 
fatiguing yourself at that rate ; cast an eye only, 
if your honour pleases, upon the sum total. 

Clar. Total ; fifty-six pound — and odd things. 

Flip. But six-and-fifty pound ! 

Mrs. Ami. Nay, another body would have made 
it twice as much ; but there's a blessing goes along 
with a moderate profit. 

Clar. Flippanta, go to my cashier, let him give 
you six-and-fifty pound. Make haste : don't you 
near me ? six-and-fifty pound. Is it so difficult to 
be comprehended ? 

Flip. No, madam, I — I comprehend six-and- 
fifty pound, but — 

Clar. But go and fetch it then. 

Flip. [Aside.] What she means I don't know ; 
but I shall, I suppose, before I bring her the money. 

[Exit. 

Clar. [Setting her hair in a pocket-glass.] The 
trade you follow gives you a great deal of trouble, 
Mrs. Amlet ? 



Mrs. Ami. Alack-a-day, a world of pain, ma- 
dam, and yet there's small profit, as your honour 
sees by your bill. 

Clar. Poor woman ! Sometimes you have great 
losses, Mrs. Amlet ? 

Mrs. Ami. I have two thousand pounds owing 
me, of which I shall never get ten shillings. 

Clar. Poor woman ! You have a great charge of 
children, Mrs. Amlet ? 

Mrs. Ami. Only one wicked rogue, madam, 
who, I think, will break my heart. 

Clar. Poor woman ! 

Mrs. Ami. He'll be hanged, madam — that will 
be the end of him. Where he gets it, Heaven 
knows ; but he's always shaking his heels with the 
ladies, and his elbows with the lords. He's as 
fine as a prince, and as gim as the best of them ; 
but the ungracious rogue tells ail he comes 
near that his mother is dead, and I am but his 
nurse. 

Clar. Poor woman ! 

Mrs. Ami. Alas, madam, he's like the rest of 
the world ; everybody's for appearing to be more 
than they are, and that ruins all. 

Clar. Well, Mrs. Amlet, you'll excuse me, I have 
a little business, Flippanta will bring you your 
money presently. Adieu, Mrs. Amlet ! 

Mrs. Ami. I return your honour many thanks. 
— [Exit Clarissa.] Ah, there's my good lady, 
not so much as read her bill. If the rest were like 
her, I should soon have money enough to go as 
fine as Dick himself. 

Enter Dick Amlet. 

Dick. Sure Flippanta must have given my letter 
by this time ; I long to know how it has been 
received. 

Mrs. Ami. Misericorde ! what do I see ! 

Dick. [Aside.] Fiends and hags — the witch my 
mother ! 

Mrs. Ami. Nay, 'tis he ; ah, my poor Dick, 
what art thou doing here ? 

Dick. [Aside.] What a misfortune ! 

Mrs. Ami. Good Lard ! how thou art bravely 
decked. But it's all one, I am thy mother still ; 
and though thou art a wicked child, nature will 
speak, I love thee still, ah, Dick ! my poor Dick ! 

[Embracing him. 

Dick. Blood and thunder ! will you ruin me ? 

[Breaking from her. 

Mrs. Ami. Ah, the blasphemous rogue, how he 
swears ! 

Dick. You destroy all my hopes. 

Mrs. Ami. Will your mother's kiss destroy you, 
varlet ? Thou art an ungracious bird ; kneel down, 
and ask me blessing, sirrah. 

Dick. Death and furies ! 

Mrs. Ami. Ah, he's a proper young man ; see 
what a shape he has ! ah, poor child ! 

[Running to embrace him, he still avoiding her. 

Dick. Oons, keep off ! the woman's mad. If 
anybody comes, my fortune's lost. 

Mrs. Ami. What fortune, ha ? speak, graceless ! 
Ah Dick, thou'lt be hanged, Dick ! 

Dick. Good dear mother now, don't call me 
Dick here. 

Mrs. Ami. Not call thee Dick ! is it not thy 
name ? What shall I call thee ? Mr. Amlet ? ha ! 
Art not thou a presumptuous rascal ? Hark you, 
sirrah, I hear of your tricks ; you disown me for 



SCENE III. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



419 



your mother, and say I am but your nurse. Is not 
this true ? 

Dick. No, I love you; I respect you; — [ Taking 
her hand.] I am all duty. But if you discover me 
here, you ruin the fairest prospect that man ever 
had. 

Mrs. Aral. What prospect ? ha ! Come, this 
is a lie now. 

Dick. No, my honoured parent ; what I say is 
true, I'm about a great fortune. I'll bring you 
home a daughter-in-law", in a coach and six horses, 
if you'll but be quiet : I can't tell you more now. 

Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ! 

Dick. 'Tis true, by Jupiter ! 

Mrs. Ami, My dear lad ! — 

Dick. For heaven's sake ! — 

Mrs. Ami. But tell me, Dick — 

Dick. I'll follow you home in a moment, and 
tell you all. 

Mrs. Ami. What a shape is there ! 

Dick. Pray mother go. 

Mrs. Ami. I must receive some money here 
first, which shall go for thy wedding-dinner. 

Dick. Here's somebody coming. — [Aside.] 
'Sdeath, she'll betray me ! 

[He makes signs to his mother. 

Re-enter Fltppanta. 

Dick. Good-morrow, dear Flippanta : how do 
all the ladies within ? 

Flip. At your service, colonel ; as far at least 
as my interest goes. 

Mrs. Ami. Colonel ! — Law you now, how Dick's 
respected! r _ Aside. 

Dick. Waiting for thee, Flippanta, I was making 
acquaintance with this old gentlewoman here. 

Mrs. Ami. The pretty lad ! he's as impudent 
as a page. [Aside. 

Dick. Who is this good woman, Flippanta ? 

Flip. Agin of all trades ; an old daggling cheat, 
that hobbles about from house to house to bubble 
the ladies of their money. I have a small business 
of yours in my pocket, colonel. 

Dick. An answer to my letter ? 

Flip. So quick indeed ! No, it's your letter 
itself. 

Dick. Hast thou not given it then yet ? 

Flip. I han't had an opportunity ; but 'twon't 
be long first. Won't you go in and see my lady ? 

Dick. Yes, I'll go make her a short visit. But, 
dear Flippanta, don't forget : my life and fortune 
are in your hands. 

Flip. Ne'er fear, I'll take care of 'em. 

Mrs. Ami. How he traps 'em ! let Dick alone. 

\_Aside. 

Dick. [ To Mrs. Amlet.] Your servant, good 
madam. 

Mrs. Ami. Your honour's most devoted. — 
[Exit Dick Amlet.] A pretty, civil, well-bred 
gentleman this, Mrs. Flippanta. Pray whom may 
he be ? 

Flip. A man of great note ; Colonel Shapely. 

Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ! I have heard much 
of him indeed, but never saw him before. One 
may see quality in every limb of him : he's a fine 
man truly. 



Flip. I think you are in love with him, Mrs. 
Amlet. 

Mrs. Ami. Alas, those days are done with^ne, 
but if I were as fair as I was once, and had as 
much money as some folks, Colonel Shapely 
should not catch cold for want of a bedfellow. I 
love your men of rank, they have something in 
their air does so distinguish 'em from the rascality. 

Flip. People of quality are fine things indeed, 
Mrs. Amlet, if they had but a little more money ; 
but for want of that, they are forced to do things 
their great souls are ashamed of. For example — 
here's my lady — she owes you but six-and-fifty 
pounds — 

Mrs. Ami, Well ! 

Flip. Well, and she has it not by her to pay you. 

Mrs. Ami. How can that be ? 

Flip. I don't know ; her cash-keeper's out of 
humour, he says he has no money. 

Mrs. Ami. What a presumptuous piece of ver- 
min is a cash-keeper ! Tell his lady he has no 
money ! — Now, Mrs. Flippanta, you may see his 
bags are full, by his being so saucy. 

Flip. If they are, there's no help for't ; he'll 
do what he pleases, till he comes to make up his 
yearly accounts. 

Mrs. Ami. But madam plays sometimes, so 
when she has good fortune, she may pay me out 
of her winnings. 

Flip. Oh, ne'er think of that, Mrs. Amlet ; if 
she had won a thousand pounds, she'd rather die in 
a jail than pay off a farthing with it. Play-money, 
Mrs. Amlet, amongst people of quality, is a sacred 
thing, and not to be profaned. The deuse ! — 'tis 
consecrated to their pleasures, 'twould be sacrilege 
to pay their debts with it. 

Mrs. Ami. Why what shall we do then ? for I 
han't one penny to buy bread. 

Flip. I'll tell you — it just now comes in my 
head : I know my lady has a little occasion for 
money at this time ; so— if you lend her — a hun- 
dred pound — do you see, then she may pay you 
your six-and-fifty out of it. 

Mrs. Ami. Sure, Mrs. Flippanta, you think to 
make a fool of me ! 

Flip. No, the devil fetch me if I do. — You shall 
have a diamond necklace in pawn. 

Mrs. Ami. O ho, a pawn ! That's another case. 
And when must she have this money ? 

Flip. In a quarter of an hour. 

Mrs. Ami. Say no more. Bring the necklace to 
my house, it shall be ready for you. 

Flip. I'll be with you in a moment, 

Mrs. Ami. Adieu, Mrs. Flippanta. 

Flip. Adieu, Mrs. Amlet. — [ Exit Mrs. Amlet.] 
So — this ready money will make us all happy. 
This spring will set our basset going, and that's a 
wheel will turn twenty others. My lady's young 
and handsome ; she'll have a dozen intrigues upon 
her hands before she has been twice at her prayers. 
So much the better ; the more the grist, the richer 
the miller. Sure never wench got into so hopeful 
a place ! Here's a fortune to be sold, a mistress 
to be debauched, and a master to be ruined. If I 
don't feather my nest, and get a good husband, I 
deserve to die, both a maid and a beggar. [Exit. 



EE2 



420 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Gripe's House. 
Enter Clarissa and Dick Amlet. 

Clar. What in the name of dulness is the mat- 
ter with you, colonel ? You are as studious as a 
cracked chemist. 

Dick. My head, madam, is full of your husband. 

Clar. The worst furniture for a head in the uni- 
verse. 

Dick. I am thinking of his passion for your 
friend Araminta. 

Clar. Passion ! —dear colonel, give it a less 
violent name. 

Enter Brass. 

Dick. Well, sir, what want you ? 

Brass. [Aside to Dick Amlet.] The affair I 
told you of goes ill. — There's an action out. 

Dick. The devil there is ! 

Clar. What news brings Brass ? 

Dick. Before Gad I'can't tell, madam ; the dog 
will never speak out. — [To Brass.] My lord 
what d'ye call him waits for me at my lodging : is 
not that it ? 

Brass. Yes, sir. 

Dick. Madam, I ask your pardon. 

Clar. Your servant, sir [Exeunt Dick Am- 
let and Brass.] Jessamin ! [She sits doivn. 

Enter Jesasmin. 

Jes. Madam ! 

Clar. Where's Corinna ? Call her to me, if her 
father han't locked her up ; I want her company. 

Jes. Madam, her guitar-master is with her. 

[Exit. 

Clar. Psha ! she's taken up with her impertinent 
guitar man. Flippanta stays an age with that old 
fool Mrs. Amlet. And Araminta, before she can 
come abroad, is so long a- placing her coquette- 
patch, that I must be a year without company. 
How insupportable is a moment's uneasiness to a 
woman of spirit and pleasure ! 

Enter Flippanta. 

Oh, art thou come at last ? Prithee, Flippanta, 
learn to move a little quicker, thou know est how 
impatient I am. 

Flip. Yes, when you expect money. If you had 
sent me to buy a prayer-book, you'd have thought 
I had flown. 

Clar. Well, hast thou brought me any, after all ? 

Flip. Yes, I have brought some. There — 
[Giving her a purse. ,] The old hag has struck off 
her bill, the rest is in that purse. 

Clar. 'Tis well ; but take care, Flippanta, my 
husband don't suspect anything of this ; 'twould 
vex him, and I don't love to make him uneasy : so 
I would spare him these little sort of troubles, by 
keeping 'em from his knowledge. 

Flip. See the tenderness she has for him ! and 
yet he's always complaining of you. 

Clar. 'Tis the nature of 'em, Flippanta ; a 
husband is a growling animal. 

Flip. How exactly you define 'em ! 



Clar. I know 'em, Flippanta ; though I con- 
fess my poor wretch diverts me sometimes with his 
ill humours. I wish he would quarrel with me to- 
day a little, to pass away the time, for I find 
myself in a violent spleen. 

Flip. Why, if you please to drop yourself in his 
way, six to four but he scolds one rubbers with 
you. 

Clar. Ay, but thou knowest he's as uncertain as 
the wind, and if instead of quarrelling with me, he 
should chance to be fond, he'd make me as sick as a 
dog. 

Flip. If he's kind, you must provoke him ; if 
he kisses you, spit in his face. 

Clar. Alas ! when men are in the kissing fit, 
(like lapdogs,) they take that for a favour. 

Flip. Nay, then I don't know what you'll do 
with him. 

Clar. I'll e'en do nothing at all with him — 
Flippanta. [Yawning. 

Flip. Madam ! 

Clar. My hoods and scarf, and a coach to the 
door. 

Flip. Why, whither are you going ? 

Clar. I can't tell yet, but I would go spend some 
money, since I have it. 

Flip. Why, you want nothing that I know of. 

Clar. How awkward an objection now is that ! 
as if a woman of education bought things because 
she wanted 'em. Quality always distinguishes 
itself, and therefore as the mechanic people buy 
things, because they have occasion for 'em, you 
see women of rank always buy things, because they 
have not occasion for 'em. Now there, Flip- 
panta, you see the difference between a woman that 
has breeding, and one that has none. O ho, here's 
Araminta come at last. 

Enter\ Araminta. 

Lard, what a tedious while you have let me expect 
you ! I was afraid you were not well ; how d'ye 
do to-day ? 

Aram As well as a woman can do, that has not 
slept all night. 

Flip. Methinks, madam, you are pretty well 
awake, however. 

Aram. Oh, 'tis not a little thing will make a 
woman of my vigour look drowsy. 

Clar. But prithee what was't disturbed you ? 

Aram. Not your husband, don't trouble your- 
self ; at least, I am not in love with him yet. 

Clar. Well remembered, I had quite forgot that 
matter. I wish you much joy, you have made a 
noble conquest indeed. 

Aram. But now I have subdued the country, 
pray is it worth my keeping? You know the 
ground, you have tried it. 

Clar. A barren soil, Heaven can tell. 

Aram. Yet if it were well cultivated, it would 
produce something to my knowledge. Do you know 
it is in my power to ruin this poor thing of yours ? 
His whole estate is at my service. 

Flip. Cods-fish ! strike him, madam, and let my 



SCENE I. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



421 



lady go your halves. There's no sin in plundering 
a husband, so his wife has share of the booty. 

Aram. Whenever she gives me her orders, I 
shall be very ready to obey 'em. 

Clar. Why, as odd a thing as such a project 
may seem, Araminta, I believe I shall have a little 
serious discourse with you about it. But, prithee, 
tell me how you have passed the night ? for I am 
sure your mind has been roving upon some pretty 
thing or other. 

Aram. Why, I have been studying all the ways 
my brain could produce to plague my husband. 

Clar. No wonder indeed you look so fresh this 
morning, after the satisfaction of such pleasing 
ideas all night. 

Aram. Why, can a woman do less than study 
mischief, when she has tumbled and tossed herself 
into a burning fever for want of sleep, and sees a 
fellow lie snoring by her, stock-still, in a fine 
breathing sweat ? 

Clar. Now see the difference of women's tem- 
pers ! If my dear would make but one nap of his 
whole life, and only waken to make his will, I 
should be the happiest wife in the universe. But 
we'll discourse more of these matters as we go, 
for I must take a tour among the shops. 

Aram. I have a coach waits at the door, we'll 
talk of 'em as we rattle along. 

Clar. The best place in nature ; for you know 

a hackney-coach is a natural enemy to a husband. 

[Exeunt Clarissa and Araminta. 

Flip. What a pretty little pair of amiable per- 
sons are there gone to hold a council of war toge- 
ther ! Poor birds ! What would they do with their 
time, if the plaguing their husbands did not help 
'em to employment ! Well, if idleness be the 
root of all evil, then matrimony's good for some- 
thing, for it sets many a poor woman to work. 
But here comes Miss. I hope I shall help her into 
the holy state too ere long. And when she's once 
there, if she don't play her part as well as the best 
of 'em, I'm mistaken. Han't I lost the letter I'm 
to give her ? — No, here 'tis ; so, now we shall see 
how pure nature will work with her, for art she 
knows none yet. 

Enter Corinna. 

Cor. What does my mother-in-law want with 
me, Flippanta ? They tell me she was asking for 
me. 

Flip. She's just gone out, so I suppose 'twas no 
great business. 

Cor. Then I'll go into my chamber again. 

Flip. Nay, hold a little if you please. I have 
some business with you myself of more concern 
than what she had to say to you. 

Cor. Make haste then, for you know my father 
won't let me keep you company ; he says you'll 
spoil me. 

Flip. I spoil you ! He's an unworthy man to 
give you such ill impressions of a woman of my 
honour. 

Cor. Nay, never take it to heart, Flippanta, for 
I don't believe a word he says. But he does so 
plague me with his continual scolding, I'm almost 
weary of my life. 

Flip. Why, what is't he finds fault with ? 

Cor. Nay, I don't know, for I never mind him ; 
when he has babbled for two hours together, me- 
thinks I have heard a mill going, that's all. It 



does not at all change my opinion, Flippanta, it 
only makes my head ache. 

Flip. Nay, if you can bear it so, you are not to 
be pitied so much as I thought. 

Cor. Not pitied ! Why is it not a miserable 
thing for such a young creature as I am should be 
kept in perpetual solitude, with no other company 
but a parcel of old fumbling masters, to teach me 
geography, arithmetic, philosophy, and a thousand 
useless things? Fine entertainment, "indeed, for a 
young maid at sixteen ? Methinks one's time 
might be better employed. 

Flip. Those things will improve your wit. 

Cor. Fiddle, faddle ! han't I wit enough already ? 
My mother-in-law has learned none of this trum- 
pery, and is not she as happy as the day is long ? 

Flip. Then you envy her I find ? 

Cor. And well I may. Does she not do what 
she has a mind to, in spite of her husband's teeth ? 

Flip. [Aside.] Look you there now ! If she 
has not already conceived that as the supreme 
blessing of life ! 

Cor. I'll tell you what, Flippanta ; if my mother- 
in-law would but stand by me a little, and encou- 
rage me, and let me keep her company, I'd rebel 
against my father to-morrow, and throw all my 
books in the fire. Why, he can't touch a groat 
of my portion ; do you know that, Flippanta ! 

Flip. [Aside.] So — I shall spoil her ! Pray 
Heaven the girl don't debauch me ! 

Cor. Look you : in short, he may think what he 
pleases, he may think himself wise ; but thoughts 
are free, and I may think in my turn. I'm but a 
girl, 'tis true, and a fool too, if you'll believe him ; 
but let him know, a foolish girl may make a wise 
man's heart ache ; so he had as good be quiet. — 
Now it's out. 

Flip. Very well, I love to see a young woman 
have spirit, it's a sign she'll come to something. 

Cor. Ah, Flippanta ! if you would but encourage 
me, you'd find me quite another thing. I'm a 
devilish girl in the bottom ; I wish you'd but let 
me make one amongst you. 

Flip. That never can be till you are married. 
Come, examine your strength a little. Do you 
think you durst venture upon a husband ? 

Cor. A husband ! Why, a — if yoti would but 
encourage me. Come, Flippanta, be a true friend 
now. I'll give you advice when I have got a little 
more experience. Do you in your very conscience 
and soul think I am old enough to be married ? 

Flip. Old enough ! why, you are sixteen, are 
you not ? 

Cor. Sixteen ! I am sixteen, two months, and 
odd days, woman. I keep an exact account. 

Flip. The deuse you are ! 

Cor. Why, do you then truly and sincerely think 
I am old enough ? 

Flip. I do upon my faith, child. 

Cor. Why, then, to deal as fairly with you, 
Flippanta, as you do with me, I have thought so 
any time these three years. 

Flip. Now I find you have more wit than ever 
I thought you had ; and to show you what an 
opinion I have of your discretion, I'll show you a 
thing I thought to have thrown in the fire. 

Cor. What is it, for Jupiter's sake ? 

Flip. Something will make your heart chuck 
within you. 

Cor. My dear Flippanta ! 



422 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



ACT II. 



Flip. What do you think it is ? 

Cor. I don't know, nor I don't care, but I'm 
mad to have it. 

Flip. It's a four-cornered thing. 

Cor. What, like a cardinal's cap ? 

Flip. No, 'tis worth a whole conclave of 'em. 
How do you like it ? [Showing the letter. 

Cor. O Lard, a letter ! Is there ever a token in it? 

Flip. Yes, and a precious one too. There's a 
handsome young gentleman's heart. 

Cor. A handsome young gentleman's heart ! — 
[Aside.] Nay, then, it's time to look grave. 

Flip. There. 

Cor. I shan't touch it. 

Flip. What's the matter now ? 

Cor. I shan't receive it. 

Flip. Sure you jest. 

Cor. You'll find I don't. I understand myself 
better than to take letters when I don't know who 
they are from. 

Flip. I'm afraid I commended your wit too soon. 

Cor. 'Tis all one, I shan't touch it, unless I 
know who it comes from. 

Flip. Heyday ! open it and you'll see. 

Cor. Indeed I shall not. 

Flip. WehV-then I must return it where I had it. 

Cor. That won't serve your turn, madam. My 
father must have an account of this. 

Flip. Sure you are not in earnest ? 

Cor. You'll find I am. 

Flip. So, here's fine work ! This 'tis to deal 
with girls before they come to know the distinc- 
tion of sexes ! 

Cor. Confess who you had it from, and perhaps, 
for this once, I mayn't tell my father. 

Flip, Why then since it must out, 'twas the 
colonel. But why are you so scrupulous, madam ? 

Cor. Because if it had come from anybody else 
— I would not have given a farthing for it. 

[Twitching it eagerly out of her hand. 

Flip. Ah, my dear little rogue ! — [Kissing her.] 
You frightened me out of my wits. 

Cor. Let • me read it ! let me read it ! let me 
read it ! let me read it ! I say. — Urn, um, um. — 
Cupid's, — um, um, um, — darts, — um, um, um, — 
beauty, — um, — charms, — um, um, xim, — angel, — 
um, — goddess, — um. — [Kissing the letter.~] um, 
um, um, — truest lover, — um, um, — eternal con- 
stancy, — um, um, um, — cruel, — um, um, um, — 
racks, — um, um, — tortures, — um, xxm,— fifty dag- 
gers, — um, um, — bleeding heart, — um, um, — 
dead man. — Very well, a mighty civil letter I pro- 
mise you ; not one smutty word in it : I'll go lock 
it up in my comb-box. 

Flip. Well — but what does he say to you ? 

Cor. Not a word of news, Flippanta; 'tis all 
about business. 

Flip. Does he not tell you he's in love with you ? 

Cor. Ay, but he told me that before. 

Flip. How so ? he never spoke to you. 

Cor. He sent me word by his eyes. 

Flip. Did he so ? mighty well ! I thought you 
had been to learn that language. 

Cor. Oh, but you thought wrong, Flippanta. 
What, because I don't go a-visiting, and see the 
world, you think I know nothing ! But you 
should consider, Flippanta, that the more one's 
alone the more one thinks ; and 'tis thinking that 
improves a girl, I'll have you to know, when I was 
younger than I am now, by more than I'll boast 



of, I thought of things would have made you stare 
again. 

Flip. Well, since you are so well versed in your 
business, I suppose I need not inform you, that if 
you don't write your gallant an answer — he'll die. 

Cor. Nay, now, Flippanta, I confess you tell 
me something I did not know before. Do you 
speak in serious sadness ? are men given to die if 
their mistresses are sour to 'em ? 

Flip. Um — I can't say they all die. — No, I 
can't say they all do ; but truly, I believe it would 
go very hard with the colonel. 

Cor. Lard, I would not have my hands in blood 
for thousands ; and therefore, Flippanta — if you'll 
encourage me — 

Flip. O by all means an answer. 

Cor. Well, since you say it then, I'll e'en in 
and do it, though I protest to you (lest you should 
think me too forward now) he's the only man that 
wears a beard I'd ink my fingers for. — [Aside.] 
Maybe if I marry him, in a year or two's time I 
mayn't be so nice. [Exit. 

Flip. Now Heaven give him joy ; he's like to 
have a rare wife o' thee ! But where there's money, 
a man has a plaster to his sore. They have a bles- 
sed time on't, who marry for love. See ! — here 
comes an example — Araminta's dread lord. 

Enter Moneytrap. 

Mon. Ah, Flippanta ! How do you do, good 
Flippanta ? how do you do ? 

Flip. Thank you, sir, well, at your service. 

Mon. And how does the good family, your mas- 
ter, and your fair mistress ? Are they at home ? 

Flip. Neither of 'em ; my master has been 
gone out these two hours, and my lady is just gone 
with your wife. 

Mon. Well, I won't say I have lost my labour, 
however, as long as I have met with you Flip- 
panta. For I have wished a great while for an 
opportunity to talk with you a little. You won't 
take it amiss, if I should ask you a few questions ? 

Flip. Provided you leave me to my liberty in 
my answers. — [Aside.] What's this cotquean 
going to pry into now ! 

Mon. Prithee, good, Flippanta, how do your 
master and mistress live together ? 

Flip. Live ! why — like man and wife ; generally 
out of humour, quarrel often, seldom agree, com- 
plain of one another ; and perhaps have both rea- 
son. In short, 'tis much as 'tis at your house. 

Mon. Good lack ! But whose side are you 
generally of ? 

Flip. Oh, the right side always, my lady's. And 
if you'll have me give you my opinion of these mat- 
ters, sir, 1 do not think a husband can ever be in 
the right. 

Mon. Ha ! 

Flip. Little peaking, creeping, sneaking, stingy, 
covetous, cowardly, dirty, cuckoldly things. 

Mon. Ha ! 

Flip. Fit for nothing but tailors and dry-nurses. 

Mon. Ha ! 

Flip. A dog in a manger, snarling and biting, to 
starve gentlemen with good stomachs. 

Mon. Ha! 

Flip. A sentry upon pleasure, set to be a plague 
upon lovers, and damn poor women before their 
time. 

Mon. A husband is indeed — 



SCENE 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



423 



Flip. Sir, I say, he is nothing. — A beetle with- 
out wings, a windmill without sails, a ship in a calm. 

Mon. Ha ! 

Flip. A bag without money— an empty bottle — 
dead small beer. 

Mon. Ha '. 

Flip. A quack without drugs. 

Mon. Ha ! 

Flip. A lawyer without knavery. 

Mon. Ha ! 

Flip. A courtier without flattery. 

Mon. Ha! 

Flip. A king without an army — or a people with 
one. Have I drawn him, sir? 

Mon. Why truly, Flippanta, I can't deny but 
there are some general lines of resemblance. But 
you know there may be exceptions. 

Flip. Hark you, sir, shall I deal plainly with 
you ? Had I got a husband, I would put him in 
mind that he was married as well as I. [Sings. 

For were I the thing calVd a wife, 
And my fool grew too fond of his power, 
He should look like an ass all his life, 
For a prank that Fd play in an hour. 

Tol lol, la ra, tol tol, 8[C. 

Do you observe that, sir ? 

Mon. I do : and think you would be in the 
right on't. But, prithee, why dost not give this 
advice to thy mistress ? 

Flip. For fear it should go round to your wife, 
sir, for you know they are playfellows. 

Mon. Oh, there's no danger of my wife ; she 
knows I'm none of those husbands. 

Flip. Are you sure she knows that, sir ? 

Mon. I'm sure she ought to know it, Flippanta, 
for really I have but four faults in the world. 

Flip. And, pray, what may they be ? 

Mon. Why, I'm a little slovenly, I shift but 
once a week. 

Flip. Fough! 

Mon. I am sometimes out of humour. 

Flip. Provoking ! 

Mon. I don't give her so much money as she'd 
have. 

Flip. Insolent ! 

Mon. And a — perhaps I mayn't be quite so 
young as I was. 

Flip. The devil ! 

Mon. Oh, but then consider how 'tis on her 
side, Flippanta. She ruins me with washing, is 
always out of humour, ever wanting money, and 
will never be older. 

Flip. That last article, I must confess, is a little 
hard xipon you. 

Mon. Ah, Flippanta ! didst thou but know the 
daily provocations T have, thou'dst be the first to 
excuse my faults. But now I think on't — thou 
art none of my friend, thou dost not love me at 
all ; no, not at all. 

Flip. And whither is this little reproach going to 
lead us now ? 

Mon. You have power over your fair mistress, 
Flippanta. 

Flip. Sir ! 

Mon. But what then ? you hate me. 

Flip. I understand you not. 

Mon. There's not a moment's trouble her 
naughty husband gives her but I feel it too. 

Flip. I don't know what you mean. 



Mon. If she did but know what part I take in 
her sufferings — 

Flip. Mighty obscure ! 

Mon. Well, I'll say no more : but — 

Flip. All Hebrew ! 

Mon. If thou wouldst but tell her on't. 

Flip. Still darker and darker ! 

Mon. I should not be ungrateful. 

Flip. Ah, now I begin to understand you. 

Mon. Flippanta — there's my purse. 

Flip. Say no more ; now you explain, indeed — 
you are in love ? 

Mon. Bitterly — and I do swear by all the gods — 

Flip. Hold ! — spare 'em for another time, you 
stand in no need of 'em now. A usurer that 
parts with his purse, gives sufficient proof of his 
sincerity. 

Mon. I hate my wife, Flippanta. 

Flip. That we'll take upon your bare word. 

Mon. She's the devil, Flippanta. 

Flip. You like your neighbour's better ? 

Mon. Oh ! — an angel ! 

Flip. What pity it is the law don't allow truck- 
ing ! 

Mon. If it did, Flippanta ! 

Flip. But since it don't, sir — keep the reins 
upon your passion : don't let your flame rage too 
high, lest my lady should be cruel, and it should 
dry you up to a mummy. 

Mon. 'Tis impossible she can be so barbarous 
to let me die, Alas, Flippanta ! a very small 
matter would save my life. 

Flip. Then y'are dead — for we women never 
grant anything to a man who will be satisfied with 
a little. 

Mon. Dear Flippanta, that was only my mo- 
desty ; but since you'll have it out — I am a very 
dragon : and so your lady'll find — if ever she 
thinks fit to be — Now I hope you'll stand my 
friend. 

Flip. Well, sir, as far as my credit goes, it shall 
be employed in your service. 

Mon. My best Flippanta ! — Tell her — I'm all 
hers — tell her — my body's hers — tell her — my 
soul's hers — and tell her — my estate's hers. Lard 
have mercy upon me, how I'm in love ! 

Flip. Poor man ! what a sweat he's in ! But 
hark — I hear my master ; for heaven's sake com- 
pose yourself a little, you are in such a fit, o'my 
conscience he'll smell you out. 

Mon. Ah dear ! I'm in such an emotion, I dare 
not be seen ; put me in this closet for a moment. 

Flip, Closet, man ! it's too little, your love 
would stifle you. Go air yourself in the garden a 
little, you have need on't i'faith.— [She puts him 
out.] A rare adventure, by my troth ! This will 
be curious news to the wives. Fortune has now 
put their husbands into their hands, and I think 
they are too sharp to neglect its favours. 

Enter Gripe. 

Gripe. Oh, here's the right hand ; the rest of 
the body can't be far off. — Where's my wife, hus- 
wife ? 

Flip. An admirable question ! — Why, she's gone 
abroad, sir. 

Gripe. Abroad, abroad, abroad already ! Why, 
she uses to be stewing in her bed three hours after 
this time, as late as 'tis. What makes her gadding 
so soon ? 



424 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



Flip. Business, I suppose. 

Gripe. Business ! she has a pretty head for bu- 
siness truly. O ho, let her change her way of 
living, or I'll make her change a light heart for a 
heavy one. 

Flip. And why would you have her change her 
way of living, sir % You see it agrees with her. 
She never looked better in her life. 

Gripe. Don't tell me of her looks, I have done 
with her looks long since. But I'll make her 
change her life, or — 

Flip. Indeed, sir, you won't. 

Gripe. Why, what shall hinder me, Insolence ? 

Flip. That which hinders most husbands — con- 
tradiction. 

Gripe. Suppose I resolve I won't be contra- 
dicted ? 

Flip. Suppose she resolves you shall ? 

Gripe. A wife's resolution is not good by law. 

Flip. Nor a husband's by custom. 

Gripe. I tell thee, I will not bear it. 

Flip. I tell you, sir, you will bear it. 

Gripe. Oons ! I have borne it three years already. 

Flip. By that you see 'tis but giving your mind 
to it. 

Gripe. My mind to it ! Death and the devil ! 
My mind to it ! 

Flip. Look ye, sir, you may swear and damn, 
and call the furies to assist you ; but till you apply 
the remedy to the right place, you'll never cure the 
disease. You fancy you have got an extravagant 
wife, is't not so ? 

Gripe. Prithee change me that word fancy, and 
it is so. 

Flip. Why there's it. Men are strangely trou- 
bled with the vapours of late. You'll wonder now, 
if I tell you, you have the most reasonable wife in 
town : and that all the disorders you think you see 
in her, are only here, here, here, in your own head. 
[Thumping Ms forehead. 

Gripe. She is then, in thy opinion, a reasonable 
woman ? 

Flip. By my faith I think so. 

Gripe. I shall run mad ! — Name me an extrava- 
gance in the world she is not guilty of. 

Flip. Name me an extravagance in the world she 
is guilty of. 

Gripe. Come then : does not she put the whole 
house in disorder ? 



Flip. Not that I know of, for she never comes 
into it but to sleep. 

Gripe, 'Tis very well : does she employ any one 
moment of her life in the government of her fa- 
mily ? 

Flip. She is so submissive a wife she leaves it 
entirely to you. 

Gripe. Admirable ! Does she not spend more 
money in coach-hire, and chair-hire, than would 
maintain six children ? 

Flip. She's too nice of your credit to be seen 
daggling in the streets. 

Gripe. Good ! Do I set eye on her sometimes in 
a week together ? 

Flip. That, sir, is because you are never stirring 
at the same time ; you keep odd hours ; you are 
always going to bed when she's rising, and rising 
just when she's coming to bed. 

Gripe. Yes truly, night into day, and day into 
night, bawdy-house play, that's her trade ! But 
these are trifles : has she not lost her diamond 
necklace ? Answer me to that, Trapes. 

Flip. Yes ; and has sent as many tears after it 
as if it had been her husband. 

Gripe. Ah ! — the pox take her 1 but enough. 
'Tis resolved, and I will put a stop to the course of 
her life, or I will put a stop to the course of her 
blood, and so she shall know the first time I meet 
with her. — [Aside."] Which though we are man and 
wife, and lie under one roof, 'tis very possible may 
not be this fortnight. [.Exit. 

Flip. Nay, thou hast a blessed time on't, that 
must be confessed. What a miserable devil is a 
husband ! Insupportable to himself, and a plague to 
everything about them. Their wives do by them 
as children do by dogs, tease and provoke 'em, till 
they make 'em so cursed, they snarl and bite at 
everything that comes in their reach. This wretch 
here is grown perverse to that degree, he's for his 
wife's keeping home, and making hell of his house, 
so he may be the devil in it, to torment her. How 
niggardly soever he is, of all things he possesses, he 
is willing to purchase her misery, at the expense of 
his own peace. But he'd as good be still, for he'll 
miss of his aim. If I know her (which I think I 
do) she'll set his blood ,in such a ferment, it shall 
bubble out at every pore of him ; whilst hers is so 
quiet in her veins, her pulse shall go like a pen- 
dulum. [Exit. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Mrs. Amlet's House. 

Enter Dick Amlet. 

Dick. Where's this old woman ? — A-hey ! What 
the devil, nobody at home ! Ha ! her strong-box ! 
and the key in't ! 'tis so. Now Fortune be my 
friend. What the deuse ! — not a penny of money 
in cash ! — nor a chequer note ! — nor a bank bill ! 
— [Searches the strong box.] Nor a crooked stick ! 
nor a — mum! — here's something. — A diamond 
necklace, by all the gods ! — Oons, the old woman ! 
—Zest ! 

[Claps the necklace in his pocket, then runs and asks 
her blessing. 



Enter Mrs. Amlet. 
Pray mother, pray to, &c. 

Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ! — Dick upon his hum- 
ble knee ! Ah my dear child ! — May Heaven be 
good unto thee. 

Dick. I'm come, my dear mother, to pay my 
duty to you, and to ask your consent to — ■ 

Mrs. Ami. What a shape is there ! 

Dick. To ask your consent, I say, to marry a 
great fortune ; for what is riches in this world 
without a blessing ? and how can there be a bless- 
ing without respect and duty to parents ? 

Mrs. Ami. What a nose he has ! 

Dick. And therefore it being the duty of every 



scene ii. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



425 



good child not to dispose of himself in marriage, 
without the — 

Mrs. Ami. Now the Lord love thee ! — [Kissing 
him.'] for thou art a goodly young man. Well, 
Dick, — and how goes it with the lady ? Are her 
eyes open to thy charms ? does she see what's for 
her own good ? is she sensible of the blessings thou 
hast in store for her ? ha ! is all sure ? hast thou 
broke a piece of money with her ? Speak, bird, 
do : don't be modest and hide thy love from thy 
mother, for I'm an indulgent parent. 

Dick. Nothing under heaven can prevent my 
good fortune but its being discovered I am your 
son — 

Mrs. Ami. Then thou art still ashamed of thy 
natural mother — graceless ! why, I'm no whore, 
sirrah. 

Dick. I know you are not. — A whore ! bless us 
all! 

Mrs. Ami. No ; my reputation's as good as the 
best of 'em ; and though I'm old, I'm chaste, you 
rascal you ! 

Dick. Lord, that is not the thing we talk of, 
mother ; but — 

Mrs. Ami. I think, as the world goes, they may 
be proud of marrying their daughter into a vartuous 
family. 

Dick. Oons ! Vartue is not the case — 

Mrs. Ami. Where she may have a good example 
before her eyes. 

Dick. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 

Mrs. Ami. I'm a woman that don't so much as 
encourage an incontinent look towards me. 

Dick. I tell you, 'sdeath, I tell you — 

Mrs. Ami. If a man should make an uncivil 
motion to me, I'd spit in his lascivious face : and 
all this you may tell 'em, sirrah. 

Dick. Death and furies 1 the woman's out of 
her — 

Mrs. Ami. Don't you swear, you rascal you, 
don't you swear ; we shall have thee damned at 
last, and then I shall be disgraced. 

Dick. Why then in cool blood hear me speak to 
you. I tell you it's a city fortune I'm about, she 
cares not a fig for your vartue, she'll hear of nothing 
but quality. She has quarrelled with one of her 
friends for having a better complexion, and is re- 
solved she'll marry, to take place of her. 

Mrs. Ami. What a cherry-lip is there ! 

Dick. Therefore, good dear mother now, have a 
care and don't discover me ; for if you do, all's lost. 

Mrs. Ami. Dear, dear, how thy fair bride will 
be delighted ! Go, get thee gone, go ! Go fetch 
her home ! go fetch her home ! I'll give her a 
sack -posset, and a pillow of down she shall lay her 
head upon. Go, fetch her home, I say ! 

Dick. Take care then of the main chance, my 
dear mother ; remember if you discover me — 

Mrs. Ami. Go, fetch her home, I say ! 

Dick. You promise me then — 

Mrs. Ami. March ! 

Dick. But swear to me — 

Mrs. Ami. Begone, sirrah ! 

Dick. Well, I'll rely upon you. — But one kiss 
before I go. [Kisses her heartily, and runs off. 

Mrs. Ami. Now the Lord love thee ; for thou art 
a comfortable young man ! [Exit. 



SCENE II. — A Room in Gripe's House. 
Enter Cortnna and Flippanta. 

Cor. But hark you, Flippanta, if you don't think 
he loves me dearly, don't give him my letter after 
all. 

Flip. Let me alone. 

Cor. When he has read it, let him give it you 
again. 

Flip. Don't trouble yourself. 

Cor. And not a word of the pudding to my 
mother-in-law. 

Flip. Enough. 

Cor. When we come to love one another to the 
purpose, she shall know all. 

Flip. Ay, then 'twill be time. 

Cor. But remember 'tis you make me do all this 
now, so if any mischief comes on't, 'tis you must 
answer for't. 

Flip. I'll be your security. 

Cor. I'm young, and know nothing of the mat- 
ter ; but you have experience, so it's your business 
to conduct me safe. 

Flip. Poor innocence ! 

Cor. But tell me in serious sadness, Flippanta, 
does he love me with the very soul of him ? 

Flip. I have told you so a hundred times, and 
yet you are not satisfied. 

Cor. But, methinks, I'd fain have him tell me 
so himself. 

Flip. Have patience, and it shall be done. 

Cor. Why, patience is a virtue ; that we must 
all confess. — But, I fancy, the sooner it's done the 
better, Flippanta. 

Enter Jessamin. 

Jes. Madam, yonder's your geography-master 
waiting for you. [Exit. 

Cor. Ah, how I am tired with these old fumbling 
fellows, Flippanta ! 

Flip. Well, don't let 'em break your heart, you 
shall be rid of 'em all ere long. 

Cor. Nay, 'tis not the study I'm so weary of, 
Flippanta, 'tis the odious thing that teaches me. 
Were the colonel my master, I fancy I could take 
pleasure in learning everything he could show 
me. 

Flip. And he can show you a great deal, I can 
tell you that. But get you gone in, here's some- 
body coming, we must not be seen together. 

Cor. I will, I will, I will ! — Oh, the dear colonel ! 

[Exit, running. 
Enter Mrs. Amlet. 

Flip. O ho, it's Mrs. Amlet. — What brings you 
so soon to us again, Mrs. Amlet ? 

Mrs. Ami. Ah, my dear Mrs. Flippanta, I'm in 
a furious fright ! 

Flip. Why, what's come to you ? 

Mrs. Ami. Ah, mercy on us all ! — Madam's 
diamond necklace — 

Flip. What of that ? 

Mrs. Ami. Are you sure you left it at my house ? 

Flip. Sure I left it ! a very pretty question 
truly ! 

Mrs. Ami. Nay, don't be angry ; say nothing 
to madam of it, I beseech you. It will be found 
again, if it be Heaven's good will. At least 'tis I 
must bear the loss on't. 'Tis my rogue of a son 
has laid his birdlime fingers on't. 



426 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



ACT III. 



Flip. Your son, Mrs. Amlet ! Do you breed 
youi children up to such tricks as these then ? 

Mrs. Ami. What shall I say to you, Mrs. Flip- 
panta ? Can I help it ? He has been a rogue from 
his cradle, Dick has. But he has his deserts too. 
And now it comes in my head, mayhap he may 
have no ill design in this neither. 

Flip. No ill design, woman ! He's a pretty 
fellow if he can steal a diamond necklace with a 
good one. 

Mrs. Ami. You don't know him, Mrs. Flip- 
panta, so well as I that bore him. Dick's a rogue, 
'tis true, but — mum ! — 

Flip. What does the woman mean ! 

Mrs. Ami. Hark you, Mrs. Flippanta, is not 
here a young gentlewoman in your house that wants 
a husband ? 

Flip. Why do you ask ? 

Mrs. Ami. By way of conversation only, it does 
not concern me ; but when she marries, I may 
chance to dance at the wedding. Remember I tell 
you so ; I who am but Mrs. Amlet. 

Flip. You dance at her wedding ! you ! 

Mrs. Ami. Yes I, I ; but don't trouble madam 
about her necklace, perhaps it mayn't go out of the 
family. Adieu, Mrs. Flippanta. {Exit. 

Flip. What — what — what doesthe woman mean? 
Mad S What a capilotade of a story's here ? The 
necklace lost ; and her son Dick ; and a fortune to 
marry ; and she shall dance at the wedding ; and — 
she does not intend, I hope, to propose a match 
between her son Dick and Corinna ? By my con- 
science I believe she does. An old beldam ! 

Enter Brass. 

Brass. Well, hussy, how stand our affairs ? Has 
miss writ us an answer yet ? my master's very 
impatient yonder. 

Flip. And why the deuse does not he come him- 
self ? What does he send such idle fellows as thee 
of his errands ? Here I had her alone just now. 
— He won't have such an opportunity again this 
month, I can tell him that. 

Brass. So much the worse for him ; 'tis his 
business. — But now, my dear, let thee and I talk 
a little of our own : I grow most damnably in love 
with thee ; dost hear that ? 

Flip. Phu ! thou art always timing things wrong; 
my head is full at present of more important things 
than love. 

Brass. Then it's full of important things indeed : 
dost want a privy-counsellor ? 

Flip. I want an assistant. 

Brass. To do what ? 

Flip. Mischief. 

Brass. I'm thy man — touch. 

Flip. But before I venture to let thee into my 
project, prithee tell me whether thou findest a 
natural disposition to ruin a husband to oblige his 
wife ? 

Brass. Is she handsome ? 

Flip. Yes. 

Brass. Why then my disposition's at her service. 

Flip. She's beholden to thee. 

Brass. Not she alone neither, therefore don't 
let her grow vain upon't ; for I have three or four 
affairs of that kind going at this time. 

Flip. Well, go carry this epistle from Miss to 
thy master ; and when thou comest back I'll tell 
thee thy business. 



Brass. I'll know it before I go, if you please. 

Flip. Thy master waits for an answer. 

Brass. I'd rather he should wait than I. 

Flip. Why then, in short, Araminta's husband 
is in love with my lady. 

Brass. Very well, child, we have a Rowland for 
her Oliver : thy lady's husband is in love with 
Araminta. 

Flip. Who told you that, sirrah ? 

Brass. 'Tis a negotiation I am charged with, 
pert. Did not I tell thee I did business for half 
the town ? I have managed Master Gripe's little 
affairs for him these ten years, you slut you. 

Flip. Hark thee, Brass, the game's in our 
hands, if we can but play the cards. 

Brass. Pique and repique, you jade you, if the 
wives will fall into a good intelligence. 

Flip. Let them alone ; I'll answer for 'em 
they don't slip the occasion. — See here they come. 
They little think what a piece of good news we have 
for 'em. 

Enter Clarissa and Araminta. 

Clar. Jessamin ! 

Enter Jessamin. 

Here, boy, carry up these things into my dressing- 
room, and break as many of them by the way as 
you can, be sure. — [Exit Jessamin.] Oh, art 
thou there, Brass ! what news ? 

Brass. Madam, I only called in as I was going 
by. — But some little propositions Mrs. Flippanta 
has been starting, have kept me here to offer your 
ladyship my humble service. 

Clar. What propositions ? 

Brass. She'll acquaint you, madam. 

Aram. Is there anything new, Flippanta ? 

Flip. Yes, and pretty too. 

Clar. That follows of course ; but let's have it 
quick. 

Flip. Why, madam, you have made a conquest. 

Clar. Hussy ! — But of who ? quick ! 

Flip. Of Mr. Moneytrap, that's all. 

Aram. My husband ! 

Flip. Yes, your husband, madam. You thought 
fit to corrupt ours, so now we are even with you. 

Aram. Sure thou art in jest, Flippanta ! 

Flip. Serious as my devotions. 

Brass. And the cross intrigue, ladies, is what 
our brains have been at work about. 

Aram. [To Clarissa.] My dear ! 

Clar. My life! 

Aram. My angel ! 

Clar. My soul ! [Hugging one another. 

Aram. The stars have done this, 

Clar. The pretty little twinklers. 

Flip. And what will you do for them now ? 

Clar. What grateful creatures ought ; show 'em 
we don't despise their favours. 

Aram. But is not this a wager between these 
two blockheads ? 

Clar. I would not give a shilling to go the win- 
ner's halves. 

Aram. Then 'tis the most fortunate thing that 
ever could have happened. 

Clar. All your last night's ideas, Araminta, were 
trifles to it. 

Aram. Brass (my dear) will be useful to us. 

Brass. At your service, madam. 

Clar. Flippanta will be necessary, my life. 

Flip. She waits your commands, madam. 



SCENE II. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



427 



Aram. For my part then, I recommend my 
husband to thee, Flippanta, and make it my earnest 
request thou won't leave him one half-crown. 

Flip. I'll do all I can to obey you, madam. 

Brass. [ To Clarissa.] If your ladyship would 
give me the same kind orders for yours. 

Clar. Oh — if thou sparest him, Brass, I'm thy 
enemy till I die. 

Brass. 'Tis enough, madam, I'll be sure to give 
you a reasonable account of him. But how do you 
intend we shall proceed, ladies ? Must we storm 
the purse at once, or break ground in form, and 
carry it by little and little ? 

Clar. Storm, dear Brass, storm ! Ever whilst 
you live, storm ! 

Aram. Oh, by all means ! — Must it not be so, 
Flippanta ? 

Flip. In four-and-twenty hours, two hundred 
pounds a-piece, that's my sentence. 

Brass. Very well. — But, ladies, you'll give me 
leave to put you in mind of some little expense in 
favours, 'twill be necessary you are at, to these 
honest gentlemen. 

Aram. Favours, Brass ! 

Brass. Urn — a — some small matters, madam, I 
doubt must be. 

Clar. Now that's a vile article, Araminta ; for 
that thing your husband is so like mine — 

Flip. Phu, there's a scruple, indeed ! Pray, 
madam, don't be so squeamish ; though the meat 
be a little flat, we'll find you savoury sauce to it. 

Clar. This wench is so mad. 

Flip. Why, what in the name of Lucifer is it 
you have to do that's so terrible ? 

Brass. A civil look only. 

Aram. There's no great harm in that. 

Flip. An obliging word. 

Clar. That one may afford 'em. 

Brass. A little smile a propos. 

Aram. That's but giving one's self an air. 

Flip. Receive a little letter, perhaps. 

Clar. Women of quality do that from fifty odious 
fellows. 

Brass. Suffer (maybe) a squeeze by the hand. 

Aram. One's so used to that one does not feel 
it. 

Flip. Or if a kiss would do't ? 

Clar. I'd die first ! 

Brass. Indeed, ladies, I doubt 'twill be neces- 
sary to — 

Clar. Get their wretched money, without paying 
so dear for it. 

Flip. Well, just as you please for that, my 
ladies. But I suppose you'll play upon the square 
with your favours, and not pique yourselves upon 
being one more grateful than another? 

Brass. And state a fair account of receipts and 
disbursements ? 

Aram. That I think should be indeed. 

Clar. With all my heart, and Brass shall be our 
bookkeeper. So get thee to work, man, as fast as 
thou canst ; but not a word of all this to thy 
master. 

Brass. I'll observe my orders, madam. [Exit. 

Clar. I'll have the pleasure of telling him 
myself ; he'll be violently delighted with it. 'Tis 
the best man in the world, Araminta ; he'll bring 
us rare company to-morrow, all sorts of gamesters; 
and thou shalt see my husband will be such a beast 
to be out of humour at it. 



Aram. The monster ! — But hush, here's my 
dear approaching : prithee let's leave him to Flip- 
panta. 

Flip. Ay, pray do, I'll hring you a good account 
of him, I'll warrant you. 

Clar. Despatch then, for the basset-table's in 
haste. [Exit with Araminta. 

Flip. So, now have at him ; here he comes. 
We'll try if we can pillage the usurer, as he does 
other folks. 

Enter Moneytrap. 

Mori. Well, my pretty Flippanta, is thy mistress 
come home ? 

Flip. Yes, sir. 

Mon. And where is she, prithee ? 

Flip. Gone abroad, sir. 

Mon. How dost mean ? 

Flip. I mean right, sir ; my lady '11 come home 
and go abroad ten times in an hour, when she's 
either in very good humour, or very bad. 

Mon. Good lack ! But I'll warrant, in general, 
'tis her naughty husband that makes her house 
uneasy to her. But hast thou said a little some- 
thing to her, chicken, for an expiring lover ? ha ! 

Flip. Said ! — yes, I have said ; much good may 
it do me ! 

Mon. Well, and how ? 

Flip. And how ! — And how do you think you 
would have me do't ? And you have such a way 
with you, one can refuse you nothing. But I have 
brought myself into a fine business by it. 

Mon. Good lack ! — But I hope, Flippanta — 

Flip. Yes, your hopes will do much, when I am 
turned out of doors. 

Mon. Was she then terrible angry ? 

Flip. Oh ! had you seen how she flew, when she 
saw where I was pointing ; for you must know I 
went round the bush, and round the bush, before I 
came to the matter. 

Mon. Nay, 'tis a ticklish point, that must be 
owned. 

Flip. On my word is it — I mean where a lady's 
truly virtuous ; for that's our case, you must know. 

Mon. A very dangerous case indeed. 

Flip. But I can tell you one thing — she has an 
inclination to you. 

Mon. Is it possible ! 

Flip. Yes, and I told her so at last. 

Mon. Well, and what did she answer thee ? 

Flip. Slap — and bid me bring it you for a token. 
[Giving him a slap on the face. 

Mon. [Aside.] And you have lost none on't by 
the way, with a pox t'ye ! 

Flip. Now this, I think, looks the best in the 
world. 

Mon. Yea, but really it feels a little oddly. 

Flip. Why, you must know, ladies have different 
ways of expressing their kindness, according to the 
humour they are in. If she had been in a good 
one, it had been a kiss ; but as long as she sent 
you something, your affairs go well. 

Mon. Why, truly, I am a little ignorant in the 
mysterious paths of love, so I must be guided by 
thee. But, prithee, take her in a good humour 
next token she sends me. 

Flip. Ah — good humour ! 

Mon. What's the matter ? 

Flip. Poor lady ! 

Mon. Ha! 

Flip. If I durst tell you all — 



428 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



ACT III. 



Mon. What then ? 

Flip. You would not expect to see her in one a 
good while. 

Mon. Why, I pray ? 

Flip. I must own I did take an unseasonable 
time to talk of love- matters to her. 

Mon. Why, what's the matter? 

Flip. Nothing. 

Mon. Nay, prithee tell me. 

Flip. I dare not. 

Mon. You must indeed. 

Flip. Why, when women are in difficulties, how 
can they think of pleasure ? 

Mon. Why, what difficulties can she be in ? 

Flip. Nay, I do but guess after all ; for she has 
that grandeur of soul, she'd die before she'd tell, 

Mon. But what dost thou suspect ? 

Flip. Why, what should one suspect, where a 
husband loves nothing but getting of money, and a 
wife nothing but spending on't ? 

Mon. So she wants that same then ? 

Flip. I say no such thing, I know nothing of 
the matter ; pray make no wrong interpretation of 
what I say, my lady wants nothing that I know of. 
' Tis true — she has had ill luck at cards of late ; I 
believe she has not won once this month : but what 
of that ? 

Mon. Ha! 

Flip. 'Tis true, I know her spirit's that she'd 
see her husband hanged before she'd ask him for 
a farthing. 

Mon. Ha! 

Flip. And then I know him again, he'd see her 
drowned before he'd give her a farthing ; but that's 
a help to your affair, you know. 

Mon. 'Tis so indeed. 

Flip. Ah — well, I'll say nothing ; but if she 
had none of these things to fret her — 

Mon. Why really, Flippanta — 

Flip. I know what you are going to say now ; 
you are going to offer your service, but 'twon't do ; 
you have a mind to play the gallant now, but it 
must not be, you want to be showing your liberality, 
but 'twon't be allowed ; you'll be pressing me to 
offer it, and she'll be in a rage. We shall have 
the devil to do. 

Mon. You mistake me, Flippanta ; I was only 
going to say — 

Flip. Ay, I know what you were going to say 
well enough ; but I tell you it will never do so. 
If one could find out some way now — ay — let me 
see — 

Mon. Indeed I hope — 

Flip. Pray be quiet — no — but I'm thinking — 
hum — she'll smoke that though — let us consider. 
— If one could find a way to — 'Tis the nicest point 
in the world to bring about, she'll never touch it, 
if she knows from whence it comes. 

Mon. Shall I try if I can reason her husband 
out of twenty pounds, to make her easy the rest 
of her life ? 

Flip. Twenty pounds, man ! — why you shall 
see her set that upon a card. Oh, she has a great 
soul ! — Besides, if her husband should oblige her, 
it might, in time, take off her aversion to him, and 
by consequence, her inclination to you. No, no, 
it must never come that way. 

Mon. What shall we do then :' 

Flip. Hold still— I have it. I'll tell you what 
you shall do. 



Mon. Ay. 

Flip. You shall make her — a restitution — of 
two hundred pounds. 

Mon. Ha ! — a restitution ! 

Flip. Yes, yes, 'tis the luckiest thought in the 
world ; madam often plays, you know, and folks 
who do so meet now and then with sharpers. Now 
you shall be a sharper, 

Mon. A sharper ! 

Flip. Ay, ay, a sharper, and having cheated her 
of two hundred pounds, shall be troubled in mind, 
and send it her back again. You comprehend me . 

Mon. Yes I — I comprehend, but a — won't she 
suspect if it be so much ? 

Flip. No, no, the more the better. 

Mon. Two hundred pound ! 

Flip. Yes, two hundred pound. — Or let me see 
— so even a sum may look a little suspicious, — ay 
— let it be two hundred and thirty ; that odd 
thirty will make it look so natural the devil won't 
find it out. 

Mon. Ha! 

Flip. Pounds, too, look I don't know how ; 
guineas I fancy were better : — ay, guineas, it shall 
be guineas. You are of that mind, are you not ? 

Mon. Urn — a guinea, you know, Flippanta, is — 

Flip. A thousand times genteeler ; you are 
certainly in the right on't ; it shall be as you say, 
two hundred and thirty guineas. 

Mon. Ho— well, if it must be guineas, let s see, 
two hundred guineas. 

Flip. And thirty ; two hundred and thirty : if 
you mistake the sum, you spoil all. So go put 
'em in a purse, while it's fresh in your head, and 
send 'em to me with a penitential letter, desiring 
I'll do you the favour to restore 'em to her. 

Mon. Two hundred and thirty pounds in a bag ! 

Flip. Guineas, I say, guineas ! 

Mon. Ay, guineas, that's true. But, Flippanta, 
if she don't know they come from me, then I give 
my money for nothing, you know. 

Flip. Phu ! leave that to me ; I'll manage the 
stock for you, I'll make it produce something, I'll 
warrant you. 

Mon. Well, Flippanta, 'tis a great sum indeed , 
but I'll go try what I can do for her. You say, 
two hundred guineas in a purse ? 

Flip. And thirty, if the man's in his senses ! 

Mon. And thirty, 'tis true, I always forget that 
thirty. [Exit. 

Flip. So, get thee gone ; thou art a rare fellow, 
i'faith. — Brass ! — it's thee, is't not ? 

Re-enter Brass. 

Brass. It is, huswife. How go matters ? I 
stayed till thy gentleman was gone. Hast done 
anything towards our common purse ? 

Flip. I think I have ; he's going to make us a 
restitution of two or three hundred pounds. 

Brass. A restitution ! — good ! 

Flip. A new way, sirrah, to make a lady take a 
present without putting her to the blush. 

Brass. 'Tis very well, mighty well, indeed. 
Prithee, where's thy master ? let me try if I can 
persuade him to be troubled in mind too. 

Flip. Not so hasty ; he's gone into his closet 
to prepare himself for a quarrel. I have advised him 
to be with his wife. 

Brass. What to do ? 

Flip. Why, to make her stay at home, now she 



SCENE II. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



429 



has resolved to do it beforehand. You roust 
know, sirrah, we intend to make a merit of our 
basset-table, and get a good pretence for the merry 
companions we intend to fill his house with. 

Brass. Very nicely spun, truly ; thy husband 
will be a happy man. 

Flip. Hold your tongue, you fool vou ! See 
here comes your master. 

Brass. He's welcome. 

Enter Dick Amlet. 

Dick. My dear Flippanta, how many thanks 
have I to pay thee ! 

Flip. Do you like her style ? 

Dick. The kindest little rogue ! there's nothing 
but she gives me leave to hope. I am the happiest 
man the world has in its care. 

Flip. Not so happy as you think for neither, 
perhaps ; you have a rival, sir, I can tell you that. 

Dick. A rival ! 

Flip. Yes, and a dangerous one too. 

Dick, Who, in the name of terror ? 

Flip. A devilish fellow ; one Mr. Amlet. 

Dick. Amlet ! I know no such man. 

Flip. You know the man's mother though ; you 
met her here, and are in her favour, I can tell you. 
If he worst you in your mistress, you shall e'en 
marry her, and disinherit him. 

Dick. If I have no other rival but Mr. Amlet, 
I believe I shan't be much disturbed in my amour. 
But can't I see Corinna ? 

Flip. I don't know, she has always some of her 
masters with her : but I'll go see if she can spare 
you a moment, and bring you word. [Exit. 

Dick. I wish my old hobbling mother han't 
been blabbing something here she should not do. 

Brass. Fear nothing, all's safe on that side yet. 
But how speaks young mistress's epistle ? soft and 
tender ? 

Dick. As pen can write. 

Brass. So you think all goes well there ? 

Dick. As my heart can wish. 

Brass. You are sure on't ? 

Dick. Sure on't. 

Brass. Why then, ceremony aside, — [Putting 
on his hat.} you and I must have a little talk, 
Mr. Amlet. 

Dick. Ah, Brass, what art thou going to do ? 
j Wou't ruin me ? 

Brass. Look you, Dick, few words ; you are in 
| a smooth way of making your fortune ; I hope all 
will roll on. But how do you intend matters shall 
pass 'twixt you and me in this business ? 

Dick. Death and furies ! what a time dost take 
to talk on't ! 

Brass. Good words, or I betray you ; they have 
already heard of one Mr. Amlet in the house. 

Dick. Here's a son of a whore ! [Aside. 

Brass. In short, look smooth, and be a good 
prince. I am your valet, 'tis true ; your footman 
sometimes, which I'm enraged at ; but you have 
always had the ascendant, I confess. When we 
were schoolfellows, you made me carry your books, 
make your exercise, own your rogueries, and some- 
times take a whipping for you. When we were 
fellow-prentices, though I was your senior, you 
made me open the shop, clean my master's shoes, 
cut last at dinner, and eat all the crust. In our 
sins too, I must own you still kept me under ; you 
soared up to adultery with our mistress, while I was 



at humble fornication with the maid. Nay, in our 
punishments you still made good your post ; for 
when once upon a time I was sentenced but to be 
whipped, I cannot deny but you were condemned 
to be hanged. So that in all times, I must confess, 
your inclinations have been greater and nobler 
than mine : however, I cannot consent that you 
should at once fix fortune for life, and I dwell in 
my humilities for the rest of my days. 

Dick. Hark thee, Brass, if I do not most nobly 
by thee, I'm a dog. 

Brass. And when ? 

Dick. As soon as ever I am married. 

Brass. Ah, the pox take thee ! 

Dick. Then you mistrust me ? 

Brass. I do, by my faith ! Look you, sir, some 
folks we mistrust, because we don't know 'em ; 
others we mistrust, because we do know 'em : 
and for one of these reasons I desire there may be 
a bargain beforehand. If not — [Raising his voice.] 
look ye, Dick Amlet — ■ 

Dick. Soft, my dear friend and companion. — 
[Aside.] The dog will ruin me ! — [Aloud.] Say, 
what is't will content thee ? 

Brass. O ho ! 

Dick. But how canst thou be such a barbarian ? 

Brass. I learned it at Algiers. 

Dick. Come, make thy Turkish demand then. 

Brass. You know you gave me a bank-bill this 
morning to receive for you. 

Dick. I did so, of fifty pounds ; 'tis thine. So, 
now thou art satisfied, all's fixed. 

Brass. It is not, indeed. There's a diamond 
necklace you robbed your mother of e'en now. 

Dick. Ah, you Jew ! 

Brass. No words. 

Dick. My dear Brass ! 

Brass. I insist. 

Dick. My old friend ! 

.Brass. Dick Amlet — [Raising his voice] I insist. 

Dick. Ah, the cormorant ! — Well, 'tis thine : 
but thou'lt never thrive with 't. 

Brass. When I find it begins to do me mischief, 
I'll give it you again. But I must have a wedding" 
suit. 

Dick. Well. 

Brass. Some good lace. 

Dick. Thou shalt. 

Brass. A stock of linen. 

Dick. Enough. 

Brass. Not yet ; a silver sword. 

Dick. Well, thou shalt have that too. Now 
thou hast everything. 

Brass. God forgive me ! I forgot a ring of 
remembrance : I would not forget all these favours 
for the world. A sparkling diamond will be always 
playing in my eye, and put me in mind of 'em. 

Dick. [Aside.] This unconscionable rogue !• — 
[Aloud.] Well, I'll bespeak one for thee. 

Brass. Brillant ? 

Dick. It shall. But if the thing don't succeed 
after all ?— 

Brass. I'm a man of honour, and restore : and 
so the treaty being finished, I strike my flag of 
defiance, and fall into my respects again. 

[Taking off his hat. 
Re-enter Flifpanta. 

Flip. I have made you wait a little, but I could 
not help it ; her master is but just gone. He has 
been showing her Prince Eugene's March into Italy. 



430 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



ACT IV. 



Dick. Prithee, let me come to her, I'll show her 
a part of the world he has never shown her yet. 

Flip. So I told her, you must know; and she 
said, she could like to travel in good company : so, 
if you'll slip up those back-stairs, you shall try if 
you can agree upon the journey. 

Dick. My dear Flippauta ! 

Flip. None of your dear acknowledgments, I 
beseech you, but up stairs as hard as you can 
drive. 

Dick. I'm gone. [Exit. 

Flip. And do you follow him, Jack-a-dandy, 
and see he is not surprised. 

Brass. I thought that was your post, Mrs. 
Useful. But if you'll come and keep me in 



humour, I don't care if I share the duty with 
you. 

Flip. No words, sirrah, but follow him ; I have 
somewhat else to do. 

Brass. The jade's so absolute, there's no con- 
testing with her. One kiss though, to keep the 
sentinel warm. — [Gives her a long kiss.~\ So. 

[Exit. 

Flip. [Wiping her mouth.'] A nasty rogue. 
But let me see, what have I to do now ? This resti- 
tution will be here quickly, I suppose ; in the 
mean time I'll go know if my lady's ready for the 
quarrel yet. Master, yonder, is so full on't, he's 
ready to burst ; but we'll give him vent by-and-by 
with a witness. [Exit. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Gripe's House. 

Enter Corinna, Dick Amlet, and Brass. 

Brass. Don't fear, I'll give timely notice. 

[Goes to the door. 

Dick. Come, you must consent, you shall eon- 
sent. How can you leave me thus upon the rack ? 
a man who loves you to that excess that I do. 

Cor. Nay, that you love me, sir, that I am satis- 
fied in, for you have sworn you do : and I am so 
pleased with it, I'd fain have you do so as long as 
you live, so we must never marry. 

Dick. Not marry, my dear ! why, what's our 
love good for if we don't marry ? 

Cor. Ah ! — I'm afraid 'twill be good for little if 
we do. 

Dick. Why do you think so ? 

Cor. Because I hear my father and mother, and 
my uncle and aunt, and Araminta and her husband, 
and twenty other married folks, say so from morn- 
ing to night. 

Dick. Oh, that's because they are bad husbands 
and bad wives ; but, in our case, there will be a 
good husband and a good wife, and so we shall 
love for ever. 

Cor. Why, there may be something in that 
truly ; and I'm always willing to hear reason, as a 
reasonable young woman ought to do. But are 
you sure, sir, though we are very good now, we 
shall be so when we come to be better acquainted? 

Dick. I can answer for myself, at least. 

Cor. I wish you could answer for me too. You 
see I am a plain-dealer, sir, I hope you don't like 
me the worse for it. 

Dick. Oh, by no means ! 'Tis a sign of admir- 
able morals ; and I hope, since you practise it 
yourself, you'll approve of it in your lover. In 
one word, therefore, (for 'tis in vain to mince the 
matter,) my resolution's fixed, and the world can't 
stagger me, I marry — or I die. 

Cor. Indeed, sir, I have much ado to believe 
you ; the disease of love is seldom so violent. 

Dick. Madam, I have two diseases to end my 
miseries ; if the first don't do't, the latter shall ; — 
[Drawing his sword'] one's in my heart, t'other's 
in my scabbard. 

Cor. Not for a diadem ! — [Catching hold of 
him.] Ah, put it up ! put it up ! 



Dick. How absolute is your command ! — [Drop- 
ping his sword.] A word, you see, disarms me. 

Cor. [Aside.] What a power I have over him ! 
The wondrous deeds of love ! — [Aloud.] Pray, sir, 
let me have no more of these rash doings though ; 
perhaps I mayn't be always in the saving humour. 
— [Aside.] I'm sure if I had let him stick himself, 
I should have been envied by all the great ladies 
in the town. 

Dick. Well, madam, have I then your promise ? 
You'll make me the happiest of mankind ? 

Cor. I don't know what to say to you ; but I 
believe I had as good promise, for I find I shall 
certainly do't. 

Dick. Then let us seal the contract thus. 

[Kisses her. 

Cor. [Aside.] Um — he has almost taken away 
my breath : he kisses purely ! 

Dick. Hark ! — somebody comes. 

Brass. [Peeping in.] Gare there ! the enemy ! 
— No, hold ! y'are safe, 'tis Flippanta. 

Enter Flippanta. 

Flip. Come, have you agreed the matter? If 
not, you must end it another time, for your father's 
in motion, so, pray kiss and part. 

Cor. That's sweet and sour [They kiss.] 

Adieu t'ye, sir ! [Exeunt Dick Amlet and Corinna. 

Enter Clarissa. 

Clar. Have you told him I'm at home, Flip- 
panta ? 

Flip. Yes, madam. 

Clar. And that I'll see him ? 

Flip. Yes, that too. But here's news for you ! 
I have just now received the restitution. 

Clar. That's killing pleasure ; and how much 
has he restored me ? 

Flip. Two hundred and thirty. 

Clar. Wretched rogue ! But retreat; your 
master's coming to quarrel. 

Flip. I'll be within call, if things run high. 

[Exit. 
Enter Gripe. 

Gripe. O ho ! — are you there i'faith ? Madam, 
your humble servant, I'm very glad to see you at 
home, I thought I should never have had that 
honour again. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



431 



Clar. Good-morrow, my dear, how d'ye do? 
Flippanta says you are out of humour, and that 
you have a mind to quarrel with me. Is it true ? 
ha ! — I have a terrible pain in my head, I give you 
notice on't befoi-ehand. 

Gripe. And how the pox should it be otherwise ? 
It's a wonder you are not dead — [Aside] as a' 
would you were ! — [Aloud] with the life you lead. 
Are you not ashamed ? and do you not blush to — 

Clar. My dear child, you crack my brain ; 
soften the harshness of your voice. Say what thou 
wou't, but let it be in an agreeable tone. 

Gripe. Tone, madam ! don't tell me of a tone — 

Clar. Oh, — if you will quarrel, do it with tem- 
perance ; let it be all in cool blood, even and 
smooth, as if you were not moved with what you 
said ; and then I'll hear you as if I were not moved 
with it neither. 

Gripe. Had ever man such need of patience ! 
Madam, madam, T must tell you, madam — 

Clar. Another key, or I walk off. 

Gripe. Don't provoke me. 

Clar. Shall you be long, my dear, in your 
remonstrances ? 

Gripe. Yes, madam, and very long. 

Clar. If you would quarrel in abregee, I should 
have a world of obligation to you. 

Gripe. What I have to say, forsooth, is not to 
be expressed in abregee, my complaints are too 
numerous. 

Clar. Complaints ! of what, my dear ? Have I 
ever given you subject of complaint, my life ? 

Gripe. O pox ! my dear and my life ! I desire 
none of your tendres. 

Clar. How ! find fault with my kindness, and 
my expressions of affection and respect ? The 
world will guess by this what the rest of your com- 
plaints may be. I must tell you I'm scandalised 
at your procedure. 

Gripe. I must tell you I'm running mad with 
yours. 

Clar. Ah ! how insupportable are the humours 
of some husbands, so full of fancies, and so ungo- 
vernable ! What have you in the world to disturb 
you? 

Gripe. What have I to disturb me ! I have 
you, death and the devil ! 

Clar. Ay, merciful Heaven ! how he swears ! 
"You should never accustom yourself to such words 
as these ; indeed, my dear, you should not ; your 
mouth's always full of 'em. 

Gripe. Blood and thunder ! madam— 

Clar. Ah, he'll fetch the house down ! Do you 
know you make me tremble for you ? — Flippanta ! 
who's there ? Flippanta ! 

Gripe. Here's a provoking devil for you ! 

Re-enter Flippanta. 

Flip. What in the name of Jove's the matter ? 
you'll raise the neighbourhood. 

Clar. Why, here's your master in a most violent 
fuss, and no mortal soul can tell for what. 

Gripe. Not tell for what ! 

Clar. No, my life. — I have begged him to tell 
me his griefs, Flippanta ; and then he swears, good 
Lord, how he does swear ! 

Gripe. Ah you wicked jade ! ah you wicked 
jade ! 

Clar. Do you hear him, Flippanta ! do you hear 
him ! 



Flip. Pray, sir, let's know a little what puts you 
in all this fury ? 

Clar. Prithee stand near me, Flippanta, there's 
an odd froth about his mouth, looks as if his poor 
head were going wrong, I'm afraid he'll bite. 

Gripe. The wicked woman, Flippanta, the 
wicked woman ! 

Clar. Can anybody wonder I shun my own 
house, when he treats me at this rate in it ? 

Gripe. At this rate ! Why in the devil's name — 

Clar. Do you hear him again ? 

Flip. Come, a little moderation, sir, and try 
what that will produce. 

Gripe. Hang her, 'tis all a pretence to justify 
her going abroad. 

Clar. A pretence ! a pretence ! Do you hear 
how black a charge he loads me with ? Charges 
me with a pretence ! Is this the return for all my 
downright open actions ? You know, my dear, 
I scorn pretences : whene'er I go abroad, it is 
without pretence. 

Gripe. Give me patience ! 

Flip. You have a great deal, sir. 

Clar. And yet he's never content, Flippanta. 

Gripe. What shall I do ! 

Clar. What a reasonable man would do ; own 
yourself in the wrong, and be quiet. Here's Flip- 
panta has understanding, and I have moderation ; 
I'm willing to make her judge of our differences. 

Flip. You do me a great deal of honour, ma- 
dam : but I tell you beforehand, I shall be a little 
on master's side. 

Gripe. Right, Flippanta has sense. Come, let 
her decide. — Have I not reason to be in a passion ? 
tell me that. 

Clar. You must tell her for what, my life. 

Gripe. Why, for the trade you drive, my soul. 

Flip. Look you, sir, pray take things right. I 
know madam does fret you a little now and then, 
that's true ; but in the fund she is the softest, 
sweetest, gentlest lady breathing. Let her but live 
entirely to her own fancy, and she'll never say a 
word to you from morning to night. 

Gripe. Oons ! let her but stay at home, and she 
shall do what she will : in reason, that is. 

Flip. D'ye hear that, madam ? Nay, now I 
must be on master's side ; you see how he loves 
you, he desires only your company. Pray give him 
that satisfaction, or I must pronounce against you. 

Clar. Well, I agree. Thou knowest I don't 
love to grieve him : let him be always in good hu- 
mour, and I'll be always at home. 

Flip. Look you there, sir, what would you have 
more ? 

Gripe. Well, let her keep her word, and I'll 
have done quarrelling. 

Clar. I must not, however, so far lose the merit 
of my consent, as to let you think I'm weary of 
going abroad, my dear. What I do, is purely to 
oblige you ; which, that I may be able to perform 
without a relapse, I'll invent what ways I can to 
make my prison supportable to me. 

Flip. Her prison ! pretty bird ! her prison ? 
don't that word melt you, sir ? 

Gripe. I must confess I did not expect to find 
her so reasonable. 

Flip. Oh, sir, soon or late wives come into good 
humour. Husbands must only have a little pa- 
tience to wait for it. 

Clar. The innocent little diversions, dear, that I 



432 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



ACT IV. 



shall content myself with, will be chiefly play and 
company. 

Gripe. Oh, I'll find you employment, your time 
shan't lie upon your hands ; though if you, 
have a mind now for such a companion as a — let 
me see — Araminta for example, why I shan't be 
against her being with you from morning till night. 

Clar. You can't oblige me more, 'tis the best 
woman in the world. 

Gripe. Is not she ? 

Flip. Ah, the old satyr ! [Aside. 

Gripe. Then we'll have, besides her, maybe 
sometimes — her husband ; and we shall see my 
niece that writes verses, and my sister Fidget ; with 
her husband's brother that's always merry ; and his 
little cousin, that's to marry the fat curate ; and 
my uncle the apothecary, with his wife and all his 
children. Oh, we shall divert ourselves rarely ! 

Flip. Good ! [Aside. 

Clar. Oh, for that, my dear child, I must be 
plain with you, I'll see none of 'em but Araminta, 
who has the manners of the court ; for I'll con- 
verse with none but women of quality. 

Gripe. Ay, ay, they shall all have one quality or 
other. 

Clar. Then, my dear, to make our home plea- 
sant, we'll have consorts of music sometimes. 

Gripe. Music in my house ! 

Clar. Yes, my child, we must have music, or the 
house will be so dull I shall get the spleen, and be 
going abroad again. 

Flip. Nay, she has so much complaisance for 
you, sir, you can't dispute such things with her. 

Gripe. Ay, but if I have music — 

Clar. Ay, but sir, I must have music — 

Flip. Not every day, madam don't mean. 

Clar. No, bless me, no ; but three consorts a 
week : three days more we'll play after dinner, at 
ombre, picquet, basset, and so forth, and close the 
evening with a handsome supper and a ball. 

Gripe. A ball ! 

Clar. Then, my love, you know there is but one 
day more upon our hands, and that shall be the 
day of conversation, we'll read verses, talk of 
books, invent modes, tell lies, scandalise our friends, 
be pert upon religion ; and in short, employ every 
moment of it in some pretty witty exercise or other. 

Flip. What order you see 'tis she proposes to 
live in ! a most wonderful regularity ! 

Gripe. Regularity with a pox ! [Aside. 

Clar. And as this kind of life, so soft, so smooth, 
so agreeable, must needs invite a vast deal of 
company to partake of it, 'twill be necessary to 
have the decency of a porter at our door, you 
know. 

Gripe. A porter ! — a scrivener have a porter, 
madam ! 

Clar. Positively, a porter. 

Gripe. Why, no scrivener since Adam ever had 
a porter, woman ! 

Clar. You will therefore be renowned in story, 
for having the first, my life. 

Gripe. Flippanta ! 

Flip. [Aside to Gripe.] Hang it, sir, never 
dispute a trifle ; if you vex her, perhaps she'll 
insist upon a Swiss. 

Gripe. But, madam — 

Clar. But, sir, a porter, positively a porter ; 
without that the treaty's null, and I go abroad 
this moment. 



Flip. Come, sir, never lose so advantageous a 
peace for a pitiful porter. 

Gripe. Why, I shall be hooted at, the boys 
will throw stones at my porter. Besides, where 
shall I have money for all this expense ? 

Clar. My dear, who asks you for any ? Don't 
be in a fright, chicken. 

Gripe. Don't be in a fright, madam ! But 
where, I say — 

Flip. Madam plays, sir, think on that ; women 
that play have inexhaustible mines, and wives who 
receive least money from their husbands, are many 
times those who spend the most. 

Clar. So, my dear, let what Flippanta says 
content you. Go, my life, trouble yourself with 
nothing, but let me do just as I please, and all will 
be well. I'm going into my closet, to consider of 
some more things to enable me to give you the 
pleasure of my company at home, without making 
it too great a misery to a yielding wife. [Exit. 

Flip. Mirror of goodness ! Pattern to all wives ! 
Well sure, sir, you are the happiest of all hus- 
bands ! 

Gripe. Yes — and a miserable dog for all that 
too, perhaps. 

Flip. Why what can you ask more than this 
matchless complaisance ? 

Gripe. I don't know what I can ask, and yet 
I'm not satisfied with what I have neither, the 
devil mixes in it all, I think ; complaisant or per 
verse, it feels just as't did. 

Flip. Why, then, your uneasiness is only a dis- 
ease, sir; perhaps a little bleeding and purging 
would relieve you. 

Clar. [Calling within.'] Flippanta ! 

Flip. Madam calls. — I come, madam. — Come, 
be merry, be merry, sir, you have cause, take my 
word for't. — [Aside.] Poor devil ! [Exit. 

Gripe. I don't know that, I don't know that : 
but this I do know, that an honest man, who has 
married a jade, whether she's pleased to spend 
her time at home or abroad, had better have lived 
a bachelor. 

Re-enter Brass. 

Brass. Oh, sir, I'm, mighty glad I have found 
you. 

Gripe. Why, what's the matter, prithee ? 

Brass. Can nobody hear us ? 

Gripe. No, no, speak quickly. 

Brass. You han't seen Araminta since the last 
letter I carried her from you ? 

Gripe. Not I, I go prudently; I don't press 
things like your young firebrand lovers. 

Brass. But seriously, sir, are you very much in 
love with her ? 

Gripe. As mortal man has been. 

Brass. I'm sorry for't. 

Gripe. Why so, dear Brass ? 

Brass. If you were never to see her more now ? 
Suppose such a thing, d'you think 'twould break 
your heart ? 

Gripe. Oh ! 

Brass. Nay, now I see you love her ; would 
you did not ! 

Gripe. My dear friend ! 

Brass. I'm in your interest deep ; you see it. 

Gripe. I do : but speak, what miserable story 
hast thou for me ? 

Brass. I had rather the devil had, phu ! — flown 



SCENE T. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



433 



away with you quick, than to see you so much in 
love, as I perceive you are, since — 

Gripe. Since what ? — ho ! 

Brass. Araminta, sir — 

Gripe. Dead ? 

Brass. No. 

Gripe. How then ? 

Brass. Worse. 

Gripe. Out with't- 

Brass. Broke. 

Gripe. Broke ! 

Brass. She is, poor lady, in the most unfortu- 
nate situation of affairs. But I have said too 
much. 

Gripe. No, no, 'tis very sad, but let's hear it. 

Brass. Sir, she charged me, on my life, never to 
mention it to you, of all men living. 

Gripe. Why, who shouldst thou tell it to, but 
to the best of her friends ? 

Brass. Ay, why there's it now, it's going just 
as I fancied. Now will I be hanged if you are not 
enough in love to be engaging in this matter. But I 
must tell you, sir, that as much concern as I have for 
that most excellent, beautiful, agreeable, distressed, 
unfortunate lady, I'm too much your friend and 
servant, ever to let it be said, 'twas the means of 
your being ruined for a woman — by letting you 
know she esteemed you more than any other man 
upon earth. 

Gripe. Ruined ! what dost thou mean ? 

Brass. Mean ! why I mean that women always 
ruin those that love 'em, that's the rule. 

Gripe. The rule ! 

Brass. Yes, the rule ; why, would you have 'em 
ruin those that don't ? How shall they bring that 
about ? 

Gripe. But is there a necessity then they should 
ruin somebody ? 

Brass. Yes, marry is there ; how would you 
have 'em support their expense else ? Why, sir, 
you can't conceive now — you can't conceive what 
Araminta' s privy-purse requires : only her privy- 
purse, sir ! Why, what do you imagine now she 
gave me for the last letter I carried her from you ? 
"lis true, 'twas from a man she liked, else, perhaps, 
I had had my bones broke. But what do you 
think she gave me ? 

Gripe. Why, mayhap — a shilling. 

Brass. A guinea, sir, a guinea ! You see by 
that how fond she was on't, by the by. But then, 
sir, her coach-hire, her chair-hire, her pin-money, 
her play-money, her china, and her charity — 
would consume peers. A great soul, a very great 
soul ! but what's the end of all this ? 

Gripe. Ha ! 

Brass. Why, I'll tell you what the end is— a 
nunnery. 

Gripe. A nunnery ! 

Brass. A nunnery. — In short, she is at last 
reduced to that extremity, and attacked with such 
a battalion of duns, that rather than tell her hus- 
band (who you know is such a dog, he'd let her go 
if she did) she has e'en determined to turn papist, 
and bid the world adieu for life. 

Gripe. O terrible ! a papist ! 

Brass. Yes, when a handsome woman has 
brought herself into difficulties, the devil can't help 
her out of — to a nunnery, that's another rule, sir. 

Gripe. But, but, but, prithee Brass, but — 

Brass. But all the buts in the world, sir, won't 



stop her ; she's a woman of a noble resolution. 
So, sir, your humble servant ; I pity her, I pity 
you, turtle and mate ; but the fates will have it 
so, all's packed up, and I am now going to call her 
a coach, for she resolves to slip off without saying 
a word ; and the next visit she receives from her 
friends will be through a melancholy grate, with a 
veil instead of a top-knot. [Going. 

Gripe. It must not be, by the powers it must 
not ! she was made for the world, and the world 
was made for her. 

Brass. And yet you see, sir, how small a share 
she has on't. 

Gripe. Poor woman ! is there no way to save 
her? 

Brass. Save her ! no ; how can she be saved ? 
Why she owes above five hundred pound. 

Gripe. Oh ! 

Brass. Five hundred pound, sir ; she's like to be 
saved indeed ! — Not but that I know them in this 
town would give me one of the five if I would per- 
suade her to accept of t'other four : but she has 
forbid me mentioning it to any soul living ; and I 
have disobeyed her only to yoti ; and so — I'll go 
and call a coach. 

Gripe. Hold ! — Dost think, my poor Brass, one 
might not order it so as to compound those debts 
for — for— twelve pence in the pound? 

Brass. Sir, d'ye hear ? I have already tried 'em 
with ten shillings, and not a rogue will prick up 
his ear at it. Though after all, for three hun- 
dred pounds all in glittering gold, I could set their 
chaps a-watering. But where' s that to be had with 
honour ? there's the thing, sir. — I'll go and call a 
coach. 

Gripe. Hold, once more : I have a note in my 
closet of two hundred, ay — and fifty, I'll go and 
give it her myself. 

Brass. You will ; very genteel truly ! Go, slap 
dash, and offer a woman of her scruples money bolt 
in her face ! Why, you might as well offer her a 
scorpion, and she'd as soon touch it. 

Gripe. Shall I carry it to her creditors then, and 
treat with them ? 

Brass. Ay, that's a rare thought. 

Gripe. Is not it, Brass ? 

Brass. Only one little inconvenience by the way. 

Gripe. As how ? 

Brass. That they are your wife's creditors as 
well as hers ; and perhaps it might not be altoge- 
ther so well to see you clearing the debts of your 
neighbour's wife, and leaving those of your own 
unpaid. 

Gripe. Why that's true now. 

Brass. I'm wise you see, sir. 

Gripe. Thou art ; and I'm but a young lover. 
But what shall we do then ? 

Brass. Why I'm thinking, that if you give me 
the note, do you see, and that I promise to give 
you an account of it — 

Gripe. Ay, but look you, Brass — 

Brass. But look you ! — Why what, d'ye think 
I'm a pickpocket? D'ye think I intend to run 
away with your note ? your paltry note ! 

Gripe. I don't say so — I say only that' in case — 

Brass. Case, sir ! there's no case but the case I 
have put you ; and since you heap cases upon cases, 
where there is but three hundred rascally pounds 
in the case — I'll go and call a coach. 

Gripe. Prithee don't be so testy :, come, no more 
F F 



434 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



words, follow me to my closet, and I'll give thee 
the money. 

Brass. A terrible effort you make indeed ; you 
are so much in love, your wits are all upon the 
wing, just a-going; and for three hundred pounds 
you put a stop to their flight. Sir, your wits are 
worth that, or your wits are worth nothing. Come 
away. 

Gripe. Well say no more, thou shalt be satisfied. 

{Exeunt. 

Re-enter Dick Amlet. 
Dick. S't!— Brass! S't!— 

Re-enter Brass. 

Brass. Well, sir ! 

Dick. 'Tis not well, sir, 'tis very ill, sir ; we 
shall be all blown up. 

Brass. What, with pride and plenty ? 

Dick. No, sir, with an officious slut that will 
spoil all. In short, Flippanta has been telling her 
mistress and Araminta of my passion for the young 
gentlewoman ; and truly to oblige me (supposed no 
ill match by the by) they are resolved to propose 
it immediately to her father. 

Brass. That's the devil ! We shall come to 
papers and parchments, jointures and settlements, 
relations meet on both sides ; that's the devil ! 

Dick. I intended this very day to propose to 
Flippanta the carrying her off: and I'm sure the 
young housewife would have tucked up her coats, 
and have marched. 

Brass. Ay, with the body and the soul of her. 

Dick. Why, then, what damned luck is this ? 

Brass. 'Tis your damned luck, not mine. I have 
always seen it in your ugly phiz, in spite of your 
powdered periwig. — Pox take ye ! — he'll be hanged 
at last. — Why don't you try to get her off yet ? 



Dick. I have no money, you dog ; you know you 
have stripped me of every penny. 

Brass. Come, damn it, I'll venture one cargo 
more upon your rotten bottom : but if ever I see 
one glance of your hempen fortune again, I'm off 
of your partnership for ever. — I shall never thrive 
with him. 

Dick. An impudent rogue ! but he's in posses- 
sion of my estate, so I must bear with him. [Aside. 

Brass. Well, come, I'll raise a hundred pounds 
fory our use, upon my wife's jewels here. — [Pulling 
out the necklace.'] Her necklace shall pawn for't. 

Dick. Remember, though, that if things fail, I'm 
to have the necklace again ; you know you agreed 
to that. 

Brass. Yes, and if I make it good, you'll be the 
better for't ; if not, I shall : so you see where the 
cause will pinch. 

Dick. Why, you barbarous dog, you won't offer 
to— 

Brass. No words now ; about your business, 
march ! Go stay for me at the next tavern : I'll go 
to Flippanta, and try what I can do for you. 

Dick. Well, I'll go, but don't think to — O pox, 
sir ! — [Exit. 

Brass. Will you be gone ? A pretty title you'd 
have to sue me upon truly, if I should have a mind 
to stand upon the defensive, as perhaps I may. I 
have done the rascal service enough to lull my con- 
science upon't I'm sure : but 'tis time enough for 
that. Let me see — first I'll go to Flippanta, and 
put a stop to this family way of match-making, then 
sell our necklace for what ready money 'twill pro- 
duce ; and by this time to-morrow I hope we shall 
be in possession of — t'other jewel here ; a precious 
jewel, as she's set in gold : I believe for the stone 
itself we may part with't again to a friend — for a 
tester. [Exit. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Gripe's House. 

Enter Brass and Flippanta. 

Brass. Well, you agree I'm in the right, don't 
you ? 

Flip. I don't know ; if your master has the 
estate he talks of, why not do't all above-board ? 
Well, though I am not much of his mind, I'm much 
in his interest, and will therefore endeavour to 
serve him in his own way. 

Brass. That's kindly said, my child, and I 
believe I shall reward thee one of these days, with 
as pretty a fellow to thy husband for't as — 

Flip. Hold your prating Jackadandy, and leave 
me to my business. 

Brass. I obey — adieu ! [Kisses her, and exit. 

Flip. Rascal ! 

Enter Corinna. 

Cor. Ah, Flippanta, I'm ready to sink down ! 
my legs tremble under me, my dear Flippy ! 

Flip. And what's the affair ? 

Cor. My father's there within with my mother 
and Araminta ; I never saw him in so good a 
humour im my life. 



Flip. And is that it that frightens you so ? 

Cor. Ah, Flippanta, they are just going to speak 
to him about my marrying the colonel. 

Flip. Are they so ! so much the worse : they're 
too hasty. 

Cor. O no, not a bit ; I slipped out on purpose, 
you must know, to give 'em an opportunity ; 
would 'twere done already ! 

Flip. I tell you no ; get you m again imme- 
diately, and prevent it. 

Cor. My dear, dear, I am not able ; I never was 
in such a way before. 

Flip. Never in a way to be married before, ha ? 
is not that it ? 

Cor. Ah, Lord, if I'm thus before I come to't, 
Flippanta, what shall I be upon the very spot ? Do 
but feel with what a thumpaty thump it goes. 

[Putting her hand to her heart. 

Flip. Nay, it does make a filthy bustle, that's 
the truth on't, child. But I believe I shall make 
it leap another way when I tell you I'm cruelly 
afraid your father won't consent after all. 

Cor. Why, he won't be the death o'me, will he ? 

Flip. I don't know, old folks are cruel ; but we'll 
have a trick for him. Brass and I have been con- 



SCENE II. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



435 



suiting upon the matter, and agreed upon a surer 
way of doing it in spite of his teeth. 

Cor. Ay, marry, sir, that were something. 

Flip. But then he must not know a word of any- 
thing towards it, 

Cor. No, no. 

Flip. So, get you in immediately. 

Cor. One, two, three, and away ! {Running off. 

Flip. And prevent your mother's speaking on't. 

Cor. But is t'other way sure, Flippanta ? 

Flip. Fear nothing, 'twill only depend upon you. 

Cor. Nay then — O ho ! ho ! ho ! how pure that 
is ! {Exit. 

Flip. Poor child ! we may do what we will with 
her, as far as marrying her goes : when that's 
over, 'tis possible she mayn't prove altogether so 
tractable. But who's here ? my sharper, I think : 
yes. 

Enter Moneytrap. 

Mon. Well, my best friend, how go matters ? 
Has the restitution been received, ha? Was she 
pleased with it ? 

Flip. Yes, truly ; that is, she was pleased to see 
there was so honest a man in this immoral age. 

Mon. Well, but a — does she know that 'twas I 
that — 

Flip. Why, you must know I begun to give her 
a little sort of a hint, and — and so — why, and so 
she begun to put on a sort of a severe, haughty, 
reserved, angry, forgiving air. But soft ; here she 
comes. You'll see how you stand with her pre- 
sently : but don't be afraid. Courage ! 

Mon. He, hem ! 

Enter Clarissa. 

'Tis no small piece of good fortune, madam, to find 
you at home : I have often endeavoured it in vain. 

Clar. 'Twas then unknown to me, for if I could 
often receive the visits of so good a friend at home, 
I should be more reasonably blamed for being so 
much abroad. 

Mon. Madam, you make me — 

Clar. You are the man of the world whose com- 
pany I think is most to be desired. I don't com- 
pliment you when I tell you so, I assure you. 

Mon. Alas, madam; your poor humble servant — 

Clar. My poor humble servant however (with 
all the esteem I have for him) stands suspected 
with me for a vile trick I doubt he has played me, 
which if I could prove upon him I'm afraid I 
should punish him very severely. 

Mon. I hope, madam, you'll believe I am not 
capable of — 

Clar. Look you, look you, you are capable of 
whatever you please, you have a great deal of wit, 
and know how to give a nice and gallant turn to 
everything ; but if you will have me continue your 
friend, you must leave me in some uncertainty in 
this matter. 

Mon. Madam, I do then protest to you — 

Clar. Come, protest nothing about it, I am but 
too penetrating, as you may perceive ; but we 
sometimes shut our eyes rather than break with 
our friends ; for a thorough knowledge of the truth 
of this business, would make me very seriously 
angry. 

Mon. 'Tis very certain, madam, that — 

Clar. Come, say no more on't, I beseech you, 
for I'm in a good deal of heat while I but think 
on't ; if you'll walk in, I'll follow you presently. 



Mon. Your goodness, madam, is — 

Flip. [Aside to Moneytrap.] War horse ! No 
fine speeches, you'll spoil all. 

Mon. Thou art a most incomparable person. 

Flip. Nay, it goes rarely ; but get you in, and 
I'll say a little something to my lady for you 
while she's warm. 

Mon. But s't, Flippanta, how long dost think 
she may hold out ? 

Flip. Phu ! not a twelvemonth. 

Mon. Boo ! 

Flip. Away, I say ! [Pushing him out. 

Clar. Is he gone ? What a wretch it is ! he 
never was quite such a beast before. 

Flip. Poor mortal, his money's finely laid out 
truly ! 

Clar. I suppose there may have been much such 
another scene within between Araminta and my 
dear. But I left him so insupportably brisk 'tis 
impossible he can have parted with any money. 
I'm afraid Brass has not succeeded as thou hast 
done, Flippanta. 

Flip. By my faith but he has, and better too ; 
he presents his humble duty to Araminta, and has 
sent her — this. [Showing the note, 

Clar. A bill from my love for two hundred and 
fifty pounds ! The monster ! he would not part 
with ten to save his lawful wife from everlasting 
torment. 

Flip. Never complain of his avarice, madam, as 
long as you have his money. 

Clar. But is not he a beast, Flippanta ? me- 
thinks the restitution looked better by half. 

Flip. Madam, the man's beast enough, that's 
certain ; but which way will you go to receive his 
beastly money, for I must not appear with his 
note ? 

Clar. That's true ; why send for Mrs. Amlet ; 
that's a mighty useful woman that Mrs. Amlet. 

Flip. Marry is she ; we should have been basely 
puzzled how to dispose of the necklace without 
her, 'twould have been dangerous offering it to sale. 

Clar. It would so, for I know your master has 
been laying out for't amongst the goldsmiths. But 
I stay here too long, I must in and coquette it a 
little more to my lover, Araminta will get ground 
on me else. 

Flip. And I'll go send for Mrs. Amlet. 

[Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. — Another Room in the same. 

Araminta, Corinna, Gripe, and Moneytrap, are dis- 
covered at a tea-table, very gay and laughing. 

All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mon. Mighty well, O mighty well indeed ! 

Enter Clarissa. 

Clar. Save you, save you, good folks ! you are all 
in rare humour methinks. 

Gripe. Why, what should we be otherwise for, 
madam ? 

Clar. Nay, I don't know, not I, my dear ; but 
I han't had the happiness of seeing you so since 
our honeymoon was over, I think. 

Gripe. Why to tell you the truth my dear, 'tis 

the joy of seeing you at home [Kisses her,] 

You see what charms you have when you are 
pleased to make use of 'em. 
F F2 



436 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



Aram. Very gallant truly. 

Clar. Nay, and what's more, you must know, 
he's never to be otherwise henceforwards ; we have 
come to an agreement about it. 

Mon. Why, here's my love and I have been upon 
just such another treaty too. 

Aram. Well, sure there's some very peaceful 
star rules at present. Pray Heaven continue its 
reign. 

Mon. Pray do you continue its reign, you 
ladies ; for 'tis all in your power. 

{Leering at Clarissa. 

Gripe. My neighbour Moneytrap says true, at 
least I'll confess frankly [Ogling Araminta] 'tis 
in one lady's power to make me the best-humoured 
man on earth. 

Mon. And I'll answer for another that has the 
same over me. {.Ogling Clarissa. 

Clar. 'Tis mighty fine, gentlemen ! mighty civil 
husbands, indeed ! 

Gripe. Nay, what I say's true, and so true, that 
all quarrels being now at an end, I am willing, if 
you please, to dispense with all that fine company 
we talked of to-day, be content with the friendly 
conversation of our two good neighbours here, and 
spend all my toying hours alone with my sweet 
wife. 

Mon. Why, truly, I think now, if these good 
women pleased, we might make up the prettiest 
little neighbourly company between our two fami- 
lies, and set a defiance to all the impertinent people 
in the world. 

Clar. The rascals ! {Aside. 

Aram. Indeed I doubt you'd soon grow weary, 
if we grew fond. 

Gripe. Never, never, for our wives have wit, 
neighbour, and that never palls. 

Clar. And our husbands have generosity, Ara- 
minta, and that seldom palls. 

Gripe. So, that's a wipe for me now, because I 
did not give her a new-year's-gift last time ; but be 
good, and I'll think of some tea-cups for you, next 
year. 

Mon. And perhaps I mayn't forget a fan, or as 
good a thing — hum, hussy. 

Clar. Well, upon these encouragements, Ara- 
minta, we'll try how good we can be. 

Gripe. [Aside.] Well, this goes most rarely ! 
Poor Moneytrap, ne little thinks what makes his 
wife so easy in his company. 

Mon. [Aside.] I can but pity poor neighbour 
Gripe. Lard, Lard, what a fool does his wife and 
I make of him ! 

Clar. [Aside to Araminta.] Are not these 
two wretched rogues, Araminta ? 

Aram. [Aside to Clarissa.] They are indeed. 

Enter Jessamin. 

Jes. Sir, here's Mr. Clip, the goldsmith, desires 
to speak with you. 

Gripe. Cods so, perhaps some news of your 
necklace, my dear. 

Clar. That would be news indeed. 

Gripe. Let him come in. {Exit Jessamin. 

Enter Mr. Clip. 

Gripe. Mr. Clip, your servant; I'm glad to see 
you : how do you do ? 

Clip. At your service, sir, very well. — Your ser- 
vant, madam Gripe. 



Clar. Horrid fellow ! {Aside. 

Gripe. Well, Mr. Clip, no news yet of my wife's 
necklace ? 

Clip. If you please to let me speak with 
you in the next room, I have something to say 
to you. 

Gripe. Ay, with all my heart. Shut the door 
after us. — [ They come forward, and the scene shuts 
behind them.] Well, any news? 

Clip. Look you, sir, here's a necklace brought 
me to sell, at least very like that you described to 
me. 

Gripe. Let's see't. — Victoria! the very same. 
Ah, my dear Mr. Clip ! [Kisses him.] But who 
brought it you ? you should have seized him. 

Clip. 'Twas a young fellow that I know : I can't 
tell whether he may be guilty, though it's like 
enough. But he has only left it me now, to show 
a brother of our trade, and will call upon me again 
presently. 

Gripe. Wheedle him hither, dear Mr. Clip. 
Here's my neighbour Moneytrap in the house ; 
he's a justice, and will commit him presently. 

Clip. 'Tis enough. 

Enter Brass. 

Gripe. O, my friend Brass ! 

Brass. Hold, sir, I think that's a gentleman I'm 
looking for. — Mr. Clip, oh, your servant ! What, 
are you acquainted here ? I have just been at your 
shop. 

Clip. I only stepped here to show Mr. Gripe the 
necklace you left. 

Brass. [To Gripe.] Why, sir, do you under- 
stand jewels ? I thought you had dealt only in 
gold. But I smoke the matter, hark you — a word in 
your ear — you are going to play the gallant again, 
and make a purchase on't for Araminta ; ha, ha ? 

Gripe. Where had you the necklace ? 

Brass. Look you, don't trouble yourself about 
that ; it's in commission with me, and I can help 
you to a pennyworth on't. 

Gripe. A pennyworth on't, villain ? 

{Strikes at him. 

Brass. Villain ! ahey, ahey ! Is't you or me, 
Mr. Clip, he's pleased' to compliment? 

Clip. What do you think on't, sir ? 

Brass. Think on't ! now the devil fetch me if 1 
know what to think on't. 

Gripe. You'll sell a pennyworth, rogue ! of a 
thing you have stolen from me. 

Brass. Stolen ! pray, sir — what wine have you 
drank to-day? It has a very merry effect upon 
you. 

Gripe. You villain ! either give me an account 
how you stole it, or — 

Brass. O ho, sir, if you please, don't carry 
your jest too far ; I don't understand hard words, 
I give you warning on't. If you han't a mind to 
buy the necklace, you may let it alone ; I know how 
to dispose on't. What a pox ! — 

Gripe. Oh, you shan't have that trouble, sir. — 
Dear Mr. Clip, you may leave the necklace here. 
I'll call at your shop, and thank you for your care. 

Clip. Sir, your humble servant. [Going. 

Brass. O ho, Mr. Clip, if you please sir, this 
won't do ! — [Stopping him.] I don't understand 
raillery in such matters. 

Clip. I leave it with Mr. Gripe do you and he 
dispute it. i^xit. 



SCENE II. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



437 



Brass. Ay, but 'tis from you, by your leave, sir, 
that I expect it. {Going after him. 

Gripe. You expect, you rogue, to make your 
escape, do you ? But I have other accounts besides 
this to make up with you. To be sure the dog 
has cheated me of two hundred and fifty pound. 
Come, villain, give me an account of — 

Brass. Account of ! — sir, give me an account of 
my necklace, or I'll make such a noise in your 
house I'll raise the devil in't. 

Gripe. Well said, Courage ! 

Brass. Blood and thunder, give it me, or — 

Gripe. Come, hush, be wise, and I'll make no 
noise of this affair. 

Brass. You'll make no noise ! but I'll make a 
noise, and a damned noise too. Oh, don't think 
to— 

Gripe. I tell thee I will not hang thee. . 

Brass. But I tell you I will hang you, if you 
don't give me my necklace. I will, rot me ! 

Gripe. Speak softly, be wise ; how came it thine? 
who gave it thee ? 

Brass. A gentleman, a friend of mine. 

Gripe. What's his name ? 

Brass. His name ! — I'm in such a passion I 
have forgot it. 

Gripe. Ah, brazen rogue — thou hast stole it 
from my wife ! 'tis the same she lost six weeks 
ago. 

Brass. This has not been in England a month. 

Gripe. You are a son of a whore. 

Brass. Give me my necklace. 

Gripe. Give me my two hundred and fifty pound 
note. 

B?-ass. Yet I offer peace : one word without pas- 
sion. The case stands thus, either I'm out of my 
wits, or you are out of yours : now 'tis plain I am 
not out of my wits, ergo — 

Gripe. My bill, hang-dog, or I'll strangle thee ! 

[They struggle. 

Brass. Murder ! murder ! 

Enter Clarissa, Araminta, Corinna, Flippanta, 
Moneytrap, and Jessamin. 

Flip. What's the matter ? what's the matter 
here ? 

Gripe. I'll matter him ! 

Clar. Who makes thee cry out thus, poor 
Brass ? 

Brass. Why, your husband, madam, he's in his 
altitudes here. 

Gripe. Robber ! 

Brass. Here, he has cheated me of a diamond 
necklace. 

Cor. Who, papa ? ah, dear me ! 

Clar. Prithee what's the meaning of this great 
emotion, my dear ? 

Gripe. The meaning is that — I'm quite out of 
breath — this son of a whore has got your necklace, 
that's all. 

Clar. My necklace ! 

Gripe. That birdlime there — stole it. 

Clar. Impossible ! 

Brass. Madam, you see master's a little — 
touched, that's all. Twenty ounces of blood let 
loose would set all right again. 

Gripe. Here, call a constable presently. — [Exit 
Jessamin.] Neighbour Moneytrap, you'll com- 
mit him ? 

Brass. D'ye hear ? d'ye hear ? See how wild 



he looks : how his eyes roll in his head I tie him 
down, or he'll do some mischief or other. 

Gripe. Let me come at him. 

Clar. Hold ! — prithee, my dear, reduce things 
to a little temperance, and let us coolly into the 
secret of this disagreeable rupture. 

Gripe. Well then, without passion. Why, you 
must know (but I'll have him hanged,) you must 
know that he came to Mr. Clip, to Mr. Clip the 
dog did ! —with a necklace to sell ; so Mr. Clip 
having notice before that (can you deny this, 
sirrah ?) that you had lost yours, brings it to me. 
Look at it here, do you know it again? — Ah, you 
traitor ! [To Brass. 

Brass. He makes me mad ! Here's an appear- 
ance of something now to the company, and yet 
nothing in't in the bottom. 

Enter Constable. 

Clar. Flippanta ! — 

[Aside to Flippanta, showing the necklace. 

Flip, 'Tis it, faith ; here's some mystery in this, 
we must look about us. 

Clar. The safest way is point blank to disown 
the necklace. 

Flip. Right, stick to that. 

Gripe. Well, madam, do you know your old 
acquaintance, ha ? 

Clar. Why, truly, my dear, though (as you 
may all imagine) I should be very glad to 
recover so valuable a thing as my necklace, yet 
I must be just to all the world, this necklace is 
not mine. 

Brass. Huzza ! — Here, constable, do your duty. 
— Mr. Justice, I demand my necklace, and satis- 
faction of him. 

Gripe. I'll die before I part with it, I'll keep it, 
and have him hanged. 

Clar. But be a little calm, my dear, do, my 
bird, and then thou'lt be able to judge rightly of 
things. 

Gripe. O good lack ! O good lack ! 

Clar. No, but don't give way to fury and inter- 
est both, either of 'em are passions strong enough 
to lead a wise man out of the way. The necklace 
not being really mine, give it the man again, and 
come drink a dish of tea. 

Brass. Ay, madam says right. 

Gripe. Oons, if you with your addle head 
don't know your own jewels, I with my solid 
one do : and if I part with it, may famine be 
my portion ! 

Clar. But don't swear and curse thyself at this 
fearful rate : don't, my dove. Be temperate in your 
words, and just in all your actions, 'twill bring a 
blessing upon you and your family. 

Gripe. Bring thunder and lightning upon me 
and my family, if I part with my necklace ! 

Clar. Why you'll have the lightning burn your 
house about your ears, my dear, if you go on in 
these practices. 

Mon. A most excellent woman this ! [Aside. 

Enter Mrs. Amlet. 

Gripe. I'll keep my necklace. 

Brass. Will you so ? then here comes one has a 
title to it, if I han't. — [Aside.'] Let Dick bring 
himself off with her as he can. — [Aloud.] Mrs. 
Amlet, you are come in a very good time ; you lost 



438 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



a necklace t'other day, and who do you think has 
got it ? 

Mrs. Ami. Marry that know I not, I wish I 
did. 

Brass. Why then here's Mr. Gripe has it, and 
swears 'tis his wife's. 

Gripe. And so I do, sirrah !— Look here, mis- 
tress, do you pretend this is yours ? 

Mrs. Ami. Not for the round world I would 
not say it ; I only kept it, to do madam a small 
courtesy, that's all. 

Clar. Ah, Flippanta, all will out now ! 

[Aside to Flippanta. 

Gripe. Courtesy ! what courtesy ? 

Mrs. Ami. A little money only that madam had 
present need of, please to pay me that, and I 
demand no more. 

Brass. So here's fresh game ; I have started a 
new hare, I find. [Aside. 

Gripe. How, forsooth, is this true ? 

[To Clarissa. 

Clar. You are in a humour at present, love, to 
believe anything, so I won't take the pains to con- 
tradict it. 

Brass. This damned necklace will spoil all our 
affairs, this is Dick's luck again. [Aside. 

Gripe. Are you not ashamed of these ways ? 
Do you see how you are exposed before your best 
friends here ? don't you blush at it ? 

Clar. I do blush, my dear, but 'tis for you, 
that here it should appear to the world, you 
keep me so bare of money, I'm forced to pawn 
my jewels. 

Gripe. Impudent housewife ! 

[Raising his hand to strike her. 

Clar. Softly, chicken ; you might have pre- 
vented all this by giving me the two hundred 
and fifty pound you sent to Araminta e'en 
now. 

Brass. You see, sir, I delivered your note. 
How I have been abused to-day ! 

Gripe. I'm betrayed ! — Jades on both sides, I 
see that ! [Aside. 

Mori. But, madam, madam, is this true I hear? 
Have you taken a present of two hundred and 
fifty pound ? Pray what were you to return for 
these pounds, madam, ha ? 

Aram. Nothing, my dear ; I only took 'em to 
reimburse you of about the same sum you sent to 
Clarissa. 

Mori. Hum, hum, hum ! 

Gripe. How, gentlewoman, did you receive 
money from him ? 

Clar. Oh, my dear, 'twas only in jest ; I knew 
you'd give it again to his wife. 

Mrs. Ami. But amongst all this tintamar, I 
don't hear a word of my hundred pounds. Is it 
madam will pay me, or master ? 

Gripe. I pay ! the devil shall pay ! 

Clar. Look you, my dear, malice apart, pay 
Mrs. Amlet her money, and I'll forgive you the 
wrong you intended my bed with Araminta. Am 
not I a good wife now ? 

Gripe. I burst with rage, and will get rid 
of this noose, though I tuck myself up in 
another. 

Mon. Nay, pray, e'en tuck me up with you. 

[Exeunt Moneytrap and Gripe. 

Clcr. and Aram. Bye, dearies S 



Enter Dick Amlet. 

Cor. Look, look, Flippanta, here's the colonel 
come at last ! 

Dick. Ladies, I ask your pardon, I have stayed 
so long, but — 

Mrs. Ami. Ah, rogue's face, have I got thee, 
old Good-for-nought ? Sirrah, sirrah, do you 
think to amuse me with your marriages, and your 
great fortunes ? Thou hast played me a rare prank, 
by my conscience ! Why, you ungracious rascal, 
what do you think will be the end of all this ? Now 
Heaven forgive me, but I have a great mind to hang 
thee for't. 

Cor. She talks to him very familiarly, Flippanta ! 

Flip. So methinks, by my faith ! 

Brass. Now the rogue's star is making an end 
of him. ^Aside. 

Dick. What shall I do with her ? [Aside. 

Mrs. Ami. Do but look at him, my dames : he 
has the countenance of a cherubim, but he's a 
rogue in his heart. 

Clar. What is the meaning of all this, Mrs. 
Amlet ? 

Mrs. Ami. The meaning, good lack ! Why 
this all-to-be-powdered rascal here is my son, an't 
please you. — Ha, Graceless ! Now I'll make you 
own your mother, vermin ! 

Clar. What, the colonel your son ? 

Mrs. Ami. 'Tis Dick, madam, that rogue Dick 
I have so often told you of, with tears trickling 
down my old cheeks. 

Aram. The woman's mad, it can never be. 

Mrs. Ami. Speak, rogue, am I not thy mother, 
ha ? Did I not bring thee forth ? say then. 

Dick. What will you have me say ? you had a 
mind to ruin me, and you have done't ; would you 
do any more . 

Clar. Then, sir, you are son to good Mrs. 
Amlet ? 

Aram. And have had the assurance to put upon 
us all this while ! 

Flip. And the confidence to think of marrying 
Corinna ? 

Brass. And the impudence to hire me for your 
servant, who am as well born as yourself ? 

Clar. Indeed I think he should be corrected. 

Aram. Indeed I think he deserves to be cud- 
gelled. 

Flip. Indeed I think he might be pumped. 

Brass. Indeed I think he will be hanged. 

Mrs. Ami. Good lack a-day ! Good lack 
a-day ! there's no need to be so smart upon him 
neither : if he is not a gentleman, he's a gentle- 
man's fellow. — Come hither, Dick, they shan't run 
thee down neither ; cock up thy hat, Dick, and 
tell 'em, though Mrs. Amlet is thy mother, she can 
make thee amends with ten thousand good pounds 
to buy thee some lands, and build thee a house in 
the midst on't. 

All. How! 

Clar. Ten thousand pounds, Mrs. Amlet ! 

Mrs. Ami. Yes forsooth, though I should lose 
the hundred you pawned your necklace for.— Tell 
'em of that, Dick. 

Cor. Look you, Flippanta, I can hold no longer, 
and I hate to see the young man abused. — And so, 
sir, if you please, I'm your friend and servant, and 
what's mine is yours ; and when our estates are put 
together, I don't doubt but we shall do as well as 
the best of 'em. 



THE CONFEDERACY. 



439 



Dick. Sayest thou so, my little queen ? Why 
then if dear mother will give us her blessing, the 
parson shall give us a tack. We'll get her a score 
of grandchildren, and a merry house we'll make 
her. [They kneel to Mrs. Amlet. 

Mrs. Ami. Ah — ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! the pretty 
pair, the pretty pair ! Rise my chickens, rise, 
rise and face the proudest of 'em. And if madam 
does not deign to give her consent, a fig for her, 
Dick ! — Why, how now ? 

Clar. Pray, Mrs. Amlet, don't be in a passion, 
the girl is my husband's girl, and if you can have 



his consent, upon my word you shall have mine, 
for anything belongs to him. 

Flip. Then all's peace again, but we have been 
more lucky than wise. 

Aram. And I suppose for us, Clarissa, we are 
to go on with our dears, as we used to do. 

Clar. Just in the same tract, for this late treaty 
of agreement with 'em was so unnatural you see it 
could not hold. But 'tis just as well with us as 
if it had. Well, 'tis a strange fate, good folks ! 
But while you live, everything gets well out of a 
broil but a husband. [Exeunt omnes. 



EPILOGUE. 



SPOKEN BY MRS. BARRY. 



I've heard wise men in politics lay down 
What feats by little England might be done, 
Were all agreed, and all would act as one. 
Ye wives a useful hint from this might take, 
The heavy, old, despotic kingdom shake, 
And make your matrimonial monsieurs quake. 
Our heads are feeble, and we're cramp'd by laws ; 
Our hands are weak, and not too strong our cause : 
Yet would those heads and hands, such as they are, 
In firm confederacy resolve on war, 
You'd find your tyrants — what I've found my dear. 
What only two united can produce 
You've seen to-night, a sample for your use : 
Single, we found we nothing could obtain ; 
We join our force — and we subdued our men. 
Believe me (my dear sex) they are not brave J 
Try each your man ; you'll quickly find your slave. 



I know they'll make campaigns, risk blood and life ; 
But this is a more terrifying strife ; 
They'll stand a shot, who'll tremble at a wife. 
Beat then your drums, and your shrill trumpets 

sound, 
Let all your visits of your feats resound, 
And deeds of war in cups of tea go round : 
The stars are with you, fate is in your hand, 
In twelve months' time you've vanquish'd half the 

land ; 
Be wise, and keep 'em under good command. 
This year will to your glory long be known, 
And deathless ballads hand your triumphs down ; 
Your late achievements ever will remain, 
For though you cannot boast of many slain, 
Your prisoners show you've made a brave cam- 
paign. 



THE MISTAKE 

& ©omrtrp. 



Don Alvarez, Father to Leonora. 
Don Feltx, Father to Don Lorenzo. 
Don Carlos, in love with Leonora. 
Don Lorenzo, in love with Leonora. 
Metaphrastus, Tutor to Camillo. 
Sancho, Servant to Don Carlos. 
Lopez, Servant to Don Lorenzo. 

SCENE 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Toledo, a Bravo. 



Leonora, Daughter to Don Alvarez. 
Camillo, supposed Son to Don Alvarez. 
Isabella, her Friend. 
Jacinta, Servant to Leonora. 



-A Town in Spain. 



PROLOGUE. 

(WRITTEN BY MR. STEELE) SPOKEN BY MR. BOOTH. 



Our author's wit and raillery to-night 
Perhaps might please, but that your stage-delight 
No more is in your minds, but ears and sight. 
With audiences composed of belles and beaux, 
The first dramatic rule is, have good clothes. 
To charm the gay spectator's gentle breast, 
In lace and feather tragedy's express'd, 
And heroes die unpitied, if ill dress'd. 

The other style you full as well advance ; 
If 'tis a comedy, you ask — Who dance ? 
For oh ! what dire convulsions have of late 
Torn and distracted each dramatic state, 
On this great question, which house first should 

sell 
The new French steps, imported by Ruel ? 
Desbarques can't rise so high, we must agree, 
They've half a foot in height more wit than we. 
But though the genius of our learned age 
Thinks fit to dance and sing quite off the stage. 
True action, comic mirth, and tragic rage ; 
Yet as your taste now stands, our author draws 



Some hopes of your indulgence and applause. 
For that great end this edifice he made, 
Where humble swain at lady's feet is laid ; 
Where the pleased nymph her conquer'd lover 

spies, 
Then to glass pillars turns her conscious eyes, 
And points anew each charm, for which he dies. 

The Muse, before nor terrible nor great, 
Enjoys by him this awful gilded seat : 
By him theatric angels mount more high, 
And mimic thunders shake a broader sky. 

Thus all must own, our author has done more, 
For your delight than ever bard before. 
His thoughts are still to iraise your pleasures fill'd 
To write, translate, to blazon, or to build. 
Then take him in the lump, nor nicely pry 
Into small faults, that 'scape a busy eye ; 
But kindly, sirs, consider, he to-day 
Finds you the house, the actors, and the play : 
So, though we stage -mechanic rules omit, 
You must allow it in a wholesale wit. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I.— A Street. 
Enter Don Carlos and Sancho. 



Don Car. I tell thee, I am not satisfied ; I'm 
in love enough to be suspicious of everybody. 

San. And yet methinks, sir, you should leave 
me out. 

Don Car. It may be so, I can't tell ; but I'm 
not at ease. If they don't make a knave, at least 
they'll make a fool of thee. 



San. I don't believe a word on't. But good 
faith, master, your love makes somewhat of you ; 
1 don't know what 'tis, but methinks when you 
suspect me, you don't seem a man of half those 
parts I used to take you for. Look in my face, 
'tis round and comely, not one hollow line of a 
villain in it. Men of my fabric don't use to be 
suspected for knaves ; and when you take us for 
fools, we never take you for wise men. For my 
part, in this present case, I take myself to be 



THE MISTAKE. 



441 



mighty deep. A stander-by, sir, sees more than 
a gamester. You are pleased to be jealous of your 
poor mistress without a cause. She uses you but 
too well, in my humble opinion. She sees you, and 
talks with you, till I am quite tired on't sometimes ; 
and your rival, that you are so scared about, 
forces a visit upon her about once in a fortnight. 

Don Car. Alas ! thou art ignorant in these 
affairs : he that's the civilest received is often the 
least cared for. Women appear warm to one, to 
hide a flame for another. Lorenzo, in short, 
appears too composed of late to be a rejected 
lover ; and the indifference he shows upon the 
favours I seem to receive from her, poisons the 
pleasure I else should taste in 'em, and keeps me 
on a perpetual rack. No ! I would fain see 
some of his jealous transports ; have him fire at 
the sight o' me, contradict me whenever I speak, 
affront me wherever he meets me, challenge me, 
fight me — 

San. Run you through the guts. 

Don Car. But he's too calm, his heart's too 
much at ease, to leave me mine at rest. 

San. But, sir, you forget that there are two 
ways for our hearts to get at ease : when our mis- 
tresses come to be very fond of us, or we, not to 
care a fig for them. Now suppose, upon the 
rebukes you know he has had, it should chance to 
be the latter. 

Don Car. Again thy ignorance appears. Alas ! 
a lover who has broke his chain will shun the 
tyrant that enslaved him. Indifference never is 
his lot ; he loves or hates for ever ; and if his mis- 
tress prove another's prize, he cannot calmly see 
her in his arms. 

San. For my part, master, I'm not so great a 
philosopher as you be, nor (thank my stars) so 
bitter a lover, but what I see — that I generally 
believe ; and when Jacinta tells me she loves me 
dearly, I have good thoughts enough of my person 
never to doubt the truth on't. See, here the bag- 
gage comes. 

Enter Jacinta with a letter. 
Hist, Jacinta, my dear ! 

Jac. Who's that ? Blunderbuss ! Where's your 
master ? 

San. Hard by. [Pointing to Don Carlos. 

Jac. O, sir ! I'm glad I have found you at last ; 
I believe I have travelled five miles after you, and 
could neither find you at home, nor in the walks, 
nor at church, nor at the opera, nor — 

San. Nor anywhere else, where he was not to 
be found. If you had looked for him where he 
was, 'twas ten to one but you had met with him. 

Jac. I had, Jack-a-dandy ! 

Don Car. But, prithee, what's the matter? 
who sent you after me ? 

Jac. One who's never well but when she sees 
you, I think ; 'twas my lady. 

Don Car. Dear Jacinta, I fain would flatter 
myself, but am not able ; the blessing's too great 
to be my lot. Yet 'tis not well to trifle with me : 
how short soe'er I am in other merit, the tender- 
ness I have for Leonora claims something from her 
generosity. I should not be deluded. 

Jac. And why do you think you are ? methinks 
she's pretty well above-board with you. What 
must be done more to satisfy you ? 

San. Why, Lorenzo must hang himself, and 
then we are content. 



Jac. How ! Lorenzo ! 

San. If less will do, he'll tell you. 

Jac Why, you are not mad, sir, are you ? 
Jealous of him 1 Pray which way may this have 
got into your head ? I took you for a man of sense 
before. — [To Sancho.] Is this your doings, Log ? 

San. No, forsooth, Pert! I'm not much given 
to suspicion, as you can tell, Mrs. Forward : if I 
were, I might find more cause, I guess, than your 
mistress has given our master here. But I have so 
many pretty thoughts of my own person, house- 
wife, more than I have of yours, that I stand in 
dread of no man. 

Jac. That's the way to prosper ; however, so far 
I'll confess the truth to thee ; at least, if that don't 
do, nothing else will. Men are mighty simple in 
love-matters, sir. When you suspect a woman's 
falling off, you fall a-plaguing her to bring her on 
again, attack her with reason, and a sour face. 
Udslife, sir ! attack her with a fiddle, double your 
good-humour ; give her a ball — powder your peri- 
wig at her — let her cheat you at cards a little — and 
I'll warrant all's right again. But to come upon 
a poor woman with the gloomy face of jealousy, 
before she gives the least occasion for't, is to set a 
complaisant rival in too favourable a light. Sir, 
sir I I must tell you, I have seen those have owed 
their success to nothing else. 

Don Car. Say no more, I have been to blame ; 
but there shall be no more on't. 

Jac. I should punish you but justly, however, 
for what's past, if I carried back what I have 
brought you ; but I'm good-natured, so here 'tis ; 
open it, and see how wrong you timed your jea- 
lousy ! 

Don Car. [Reads.] If you love me with that 
tenderness you have made me long believe you do, 
this letter will be welcome ; 'tis to tell yoti, you 
have leave to plead a daughter's weakness to a 
father's indulgence : and if you prevail with him 
to lay his commands upon me, you shall be as 
happy as my obedience to 'em can make you. 

Leonora. 
Then I shall be what man was never yet. — [Kiss- 
ing the letter. 1 Ten thousand blessings on thee for 
thy news ! — I could adore thee as a deity ! 

[Embracing Jacinta. 

San. True flesh and blood, every inch of her, 
for all that. 

Don Car. [Reads again.] And if you prevail 
with him to lay his commands upon me, you shall 
be as happy as my obedience to 'em can make you. 
— O happy, happy Carlos ! — But what shall I say 
to thee for this welcome message ? Alas ! I want 
words. — But let this speak for me, and this, and 
this, and — [Giving her his ring, watch, and purse. 

San. Hold, sir ; pray leave a little something for 

our board-wages. — [To Jacinta.] You can't 

carry 'em all, I believe : shall I ease thee of this ? 

[Offering to take the purse. 

Jac. No ; but you may carry — that, sirrah. 

[Giving him a box on the ear. 

San. The jade's grown purse-proud already. 

Don Car. Well, dear Jacinta, say something to 
your charming mistress, that I am not able to say 
myself : but above all, excuse my late unpardon- 
able folly, and offer her my life to expiate my 
crime. 

Jac. The best plea for pardon will be never to 
repeat the fault. 



442 



THE MISTAKE. 



ACT 1. 



Don Car. If that will do, 'tis sealed for ever. 

Jnc. Enough. But I must begone ; success 
attend you with the old gentleman. Good-bye t'ye, 
sir. 

Don Car. Eternal blessings follow thee ! 

[Exit Jacinta. 

San. I think she has taken 'em all with her ; 
the jade has got her apron full. 

Don Car. Is not that Lorenzo coming this way ? 

San. Yes, 'tis he ; for my part now I pity the 
poor gentleman. 

Enter Don Lorenzo. 

Don Car. I'll let him see at last I can be cheer- 
ful too. — Your servant, Don Lorenzo ; how do you 
do this morning ? 

Don Lor. I thank you, Don Carlos, perfectly 
well, both in body and in mind. 

Don Car. What ! cured of your love then ? 

Don Lor. No, nor I hope I never shall. May 
I ask you how 'tis with yours ? 

Don Car. Increasing every hour ; we are very 
constant both. 

Don Lor. I find so much delight in being so I 
hope I never shall be otherwise. 

Don Car. Those joys I am well acquainted with, 
but should lose 'em soon were I to meet a 
cool reception. 

Don Lor. That's every generous lover's case, 
no doubt ; an angel could not fire my heart but 
with an equal flame. 

Don Car. And yet you said you still loved Leo- 
nora. 

Don Lor. And yet I said I loved her. 

Don Car. Does she then return you — 

Don Lor. Everything my passion can require. 

Don Car. Its wants are small, I find. 

Don Lor. Extended as the heavens. 

Don Car. I pity you. 

Don Lor. He must be a deity that does so. 

Don Car. Yet I'm a mortal, and once more can 
pity you. 
Alas ! Lorenzo, 

'Tis a poor cordial to an aching heart, 
To have the tongue alone announce it happy : 
Besides 'tis mean, you should be more a man. 

Don Lor. I find I have made you an unhappy one, 
So can forgive the boilings of your spleen. 

Don Car. This seeming calmness might have 
the effect your vanity proposes by it, had I not a 
testimony of her love would (should I show it) sink 
you to the centre. 

Don Lor. Yet still I'm calm as ever. 

Don Car. Nay, then have at your peace. Read 
that, and end the farce. [Gives him Leonora's letter. 

Don Lor. [After reading.'] I have read it. 

Don Car. And know the hand ? 

Don Lor. 'Tis Leonora's ; I have often seen it. 

Don Car. I hope you then at last are satisfied. 

Don Lor. [Smiling.~]lam. Good morrow, Carlos ! 

[Exit. 

San. Sure he's mad, master. 

Don Car. Mad ! sayest thou ? 

San. And yet, by'r Lady, that was a sort of a 
dry sober smile at going off. 

Don Car. A very sober one ! Had he show me 
such a letter, I had put on another countenance. 

San. Ay, o' my conscience had you. 

Don Car. Here's mystery in this — I like it not. 

San. I see his man and confidant there, Lopez. 



Shall I draw him on a Scotch pair of boots, mas- 
ter, and make him tell all? 

Don Car. Some questions I must ask him ; call 
him hither. 

San. Hem, Lopez, hem ! 

Enter Lopez. 

Lop. Who calls ? 

San. I and my master. 

Lop. I can't stay. 

San. You can indeed, sir. [Laying hold on him. 

Don Car. Whither in such haste, honest Lopez ? 
What ! upon some love- errand ? 

Lop. Sir, your servant ; I ask your pardon, but 
I was going — 

Don Car. I guess where ; but you need not be 
shy of me any more, thy master and I are no 
longer rivals ; I have yielded up the cause ; the 
lady will have it so, so I submit. 

Lop. Is it possible, sir ? Shall I then live to 
see my master and you friends again ? 

San. Yes ; and what',s better, thou and I shall 
be friends too. There will be no more fear of 
Christian bloodshed, I give thee up, Jacinta ; she's 
a slippery housewife, so master and I are going to 
match ourselves elsewhere. 

Lop. But is it possible, sir, your honour should 
be in earnest ? I'm afraid you are pleased to be 
merry with your poor humble servant. 

Don Car. I'm not at present much disposed to 
mirth, my indifference in this matter is not so 
thoroughly formed ; but my reason has so far 
mastered my passion, to show me 'tis in vain to 
pursue a woman whose heart already is another's. 
'Tis what I have so plainly seen of late, I have 
roused my resolution to my aid, and broke my 
chains for ever. 

Lop. Well, sir, to be plain with you, this is the 
joyfullest news I have heard this long time ; for I 
always knew you to be a mighty honest gentleman, 
and good faith it often went to the heart o' me to 
see you so abused. Dear, dear, have I often said 
to myself (when they have had a private meeting 
just after you have been gone) — 

Don Car. Ha ! i 

San. Hold, master, don't kill him yet. 

[Aside to Don Carlos. 

Lop. I say 1 have said to myself, what wicked | 
things are women, and what pity it is they should 
be suffered in a Christian country ! what a shame 
they should be allowed to play will-in-the-wisp with 
men of honour, and lead them through thorns and 
briars, and rocks, and rugged ways, till their 
hearts are torn in pieces, like an old coat in a fox- 
chase ! I say, I have said to myself— 

Don Car. Thou hast said enough to thyself, but 
say a little more to me. Where were these secret 
meetings thou talkest of ? 

Lop. In sundry places, and by divers ways ; 
sometimes in the cellar, sometimes in the garret, 
sometimes in the court, sometimes in the gutter ; 
but the place where the kiss of kisses was given 
was — 

Don Car. In hell ! 

Lop. Sir ! 

Don Car. Speak, fury, wh"t dost thou mean by 
the kiss of kisses ? 

Lop. The kiss of peace, sir ; the kiss of union ; 
the kiss of consummation. 



SCENE I. 



THE MISTAKE. 



443 



Don Car. Thou liest, villain ! • 

Lop. I don't know but I may, sir. — [Aside.'] j 
What the devil's the matter now ! j 

Don Car. There's not one word of truth in all i 
thy cursed tongue has uttered. 

Lop. No, sir, I — I — believe there is not. 

Don Car. Why then didst thou say it, wretch ? 

Lop. Oh— only in jest, sir. 

Don Car. I am not in a jesting condition. 

Lop. Nor I— at present, sir. 

Don Car. Speak then the truth, as thou wouldst 
do it at the hour of death. 

Lop. Yes, at the gallows, and be turned off as 
soon as I've done. [Aside. 

Don Car. What's that you murmur ? 

Lop. Nothing but a short prayer. 

Don Car. [Aside.] I am distracted, and fright 
the wretch from telling me what I am upon the 
rack to know. — [ Aloud.} Forgive me, Lopez, I 
am to blame to speak thus harshly to thee. Let 
this obtain thy pardon.— [Gives him money.] Thou 
seest I am disturbed. 

Lop. Yes, sir, I see I have been led into a snare ; 
I have said too much. 

Don Car. And yet thoii must say more ; nothing 
can lessen my torment but a farther knowledge of 
what causes my misery. Speak then ! have I any- 
thing to hope ? 

Lop. Nothing ; but that you may be a happier 
bachelor than my master may probably be a mar- 
ried man. 

Don Car. Married, sayest thou ? 

Lop. I did, sir, and I believe he'll say so too in 
a twelvemonth. 



Don Car. O torment ! — But give me more on't : 
when, how, to who, where ? 

Lop. Yesterday, to Leonora, by the parson in 
the pantry. 

Don Car. Look to't, if this be false, thy life 
shall pay the torment thou hast given me. Begone ! 

Lop. With the body and the soul o'me. [Exit. 

San. Base news, master. 

Don Car. Now my insulting rival's smile speaks 
out : O cursed, cursed woman ! 
Re-enter Jacinta. 

Jac. I'm come in haste to tell you, sir, that as 
soon as the moon's up, my lady '11 give you a meet- 
ing in the close -walk by the back-door of the 
garden ; she thinks she has something to propose 
to you will certainly get her father's consent to 
marry you. 

Don Car. Past sufferance ! 
This aggravation is not to be borne. 
Go, thank her — with my curses. Fly ! — 
And let 'em blast her, while their venom's strong, 

[Exit. 

Jac. Won't thou explain ? What's this storm for ? 

San. And darest thou ask me questions, smooth- 
faced iniquity, crocodile of Nile, siren of the rocks ! 
Go, carry back the too gentle answer thou hast 
received ; only let me add with the poet : — 
We are no fools, trollop, my master, nor me ; 
And thy mistress may go — to the devil with thee. 

\ExiU 

Jac. Am I awake ! — I fancy not ; a very idle 
dream this. Well : I'll go talk in my sleep to" my 
lady about it ; and when I awake, we'll try what 
interpretation we can make on't. [Exit. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — An open court near the House of 
Don Alvarez. 

Enter Camillo and Isabella. 

Isab. How can you doubt my secrecy ? have 
you not proofs of it ? 

Cam. Nay, I am determined to trust you ; but 
are we safe here ? can nobody overhear us ? 

Isab. Safer much than in a room. Nobody can 
come within hearing before we see 'em. 

Cam. And yet how hard 'tis for me to break 
silence ! 

Isab. Your secret sure must be of great import- 
ance. 

Cam. You may be sure it is, when I confess 
'tis with regret I own it e'en to you ; and, were it 
possible, you should not know it. 

Isab. 'Tis frankly owned indeed ; but 'tis not 
kind, perhaps not prudent, after what you know I 
already am acquainted with. Have I not been 
bred up with you ? and am I ignorant of a secret 
which, were it known — 

Cam. Would be my ruin ; I confess it would. 
I own you know why both my birth and sex are thus 
disguised ; you know how I was taken from my 
cradle to secure the estate which had else been lost 
by young Camillo's death ; but which is now safe in 
my supposed father's hands, by my passing for his 
son ; and 'tis because you know all this, I have 
resolved to open farther wonders to you. But, 



before I say any more, you must resolve one doubt 5 
which often gives me great disturbance ; whether 
Don Alvarez ever was himself privy to the mys- 
tery which has disguised my sex, and made me 
pass for his son ? 

Isab. What you ask me is a thing has often 
perplexed my thoughts as well as yours, nor could 
my mother ever resolve the doubt. You know 
when that young child Camillo died, in whom was 
wrapped up so much expectation, from the great 
estate his uncle's will (even before he came into 
the world) had left him ; his mother made a secret 
of his death to her husband Alvarez, and readily 
fell in with a proposal made her to take you (who 
then were just Camillo's age) and bring you up in 
his room. You have heard how you were then at 
nurse with my mother, and how your own was 
privy and consenting to the plot ; but Don Alvarez 
was never let into it by 'em. 

Cam. Don't you then think it probable his wife 
might after tell him ? 

Isab. 'Twas ever thought nothing but a death- 
bed repentance could draw it from her to any one ; 
and that was prevented by the suddenness of her 
exit to t'other world, which did not give her even 
time to call Heaven's mercy on her. And yet, 
now I have said all this, I own the correspondence 
and friendship I observe he holds with your reai 
mother gives me some suspicion, and the presents 
he often makes her (which people seldom do for 



444 



THE MISTAKE. 



nothing) confirm it. But, since this is all I can 
say to you on that point, pray let us come to the 
secret, which you have made me impatient to hear. 

Cam. Know, then, that though Cupid is blind, 
he is not to be deceived : I can hide my sex from 
the world, but not from him ; his dart has found 
the way through the manly garb I wear, to pierce 
a virgin's tender heart. — I love — 

Isab. How ! 

Cam. Nay, ben't surprised at that, I have other 
wonders for you. 

Isab. Quick, let me hear 'em. 

Cam. I love Lorenzo. 

Isab. Lorenzo ! Most nicely hit ! The very 
man from whom your imposture keeps this vast 
estate ; and who, on the first knowledge of your 
being a woman, would enter into possession of it. 
This is indeed a wonder. 

Cam. Then, wonder farther still, I am his wife. 

Isab. Ha ! his wife ! 

Isab. His wife, Isabella ; and yet thou hast not 
all my wonders, I am his wife without his know- 
ledge : he does not even know I am a woman. 

Isab. Madam, your humble servant ; if you 
please to go on, I won't interrupt you, indeed I 
won't. 

Cam. Then hear how these strange things have 
passed : Lorenzo, bound unregarded in my sister's 
chains, seemed in my eyes a conquest worth her 
care. Nor could I see him treated with contempt 
without growing warm in his interest : I blamed 
Leonora for not being touched with his merit ; I 
blamed her so long, till I grew touched with it 
myself : and the reasons I urged to vanquish her 
heart insensibly made a conquest of my own. 
'Twas thus, my friend, I fell. What was next to 
be done my passion pointed out ; my heart I felt 
was warmed to a noble enterprise, I gave it way, 
and boldly on it led me. Leonora's name and 
voice, in the dark shades of night, I borrowed, to 
engage the object of my wishes. I met him, Isa- 
bella, and so deceived him ; he cannot blame me 
sure, for much I blessed him. But to finish this 
strange story : in short, I owned I long had loved ; 
out, finding my father most averse to my desires, 
I at last had forced myself to this secret corre- 
spondence ; 
I urged the mischiefs would attend the knowledge 

on't, 
I urged 'em so, he thought 'em full of weight, 
So yielded to observe what rules I gave him. 
They were, to pass the day with cold indifference, 
To avoid even sign or looks of intimacy, 
But gather for the still, the secret night, 
A flood of love 

To recompense the losses of the day. 
I will not trouble you with lovers' cares, 
Nor what contrivances we form'd to bring 
This toying to a solid bliss. 

Know only, when three nights we thus had pass'd, 
The fourth 

It was agreed should make us one for ever ; 
Each kept their promise, and last night has join'd 
us. 

Isab. Indeed your talents pass my poor extent ; 
You serious ladies are well form'd for business. 
What wretched work a poor coquette had made 

on't! 
But still there's that remains will try your skill ; 
You have your man, but — 



Cam. Lovers think no farther. 

The object of that passion possesses all desire. 
However, I have opened to you my wondrous situa 
tion, if you can advise me in my difficulties to 
come, you will. But see — my husband ! 

Enter Don Lorenzo. 

Don Lor. You look as if you were busy ; pray 
tell me if I interrupt you ; I'll retire. 

Cam. No, no, you have a right to interrupt us, 
since you were the subject of our discourse. 

Don Lor. Was I ? 

Cam. You were ; nay, I'll tell you how you 
entertained us too. 

Don Lor. Perhaps I had as good avoid hearing 
that. 

Cam. You need not fear, it was not to your dis- 
advantage ; I was commending you, and saying, if 
I had been a woman, I had been in danger ; nay I 
think I said I should infallibly have been in love 
with you. 

Don Lor. While such an if is in the way, you 
run no great risk in declaring ; but you'd be finely 
catched now, should some wonderful transforma- 
tion give me a claim to your heart. 

Cam. Not sorry for't at all, for I ne'er expect 
to find a mistress please me half so well as you 
would do, if I were yours. 

Don Lor. Since you are so well inclined to me 
in your wishes, sir, I suppose (as the fates have 
ordained it) you would have some pleasure in help- 
ing me to a mistress, since you can't be mine your- 
self. 

Cam. Indeed I should not. 

Don Lor. Then my obligation is but small to 
you. 

Cam. Why, would you have a woman, that is in 
love with you herself, employ her interest to help 
you to another ? 

Don Lor. No, but you being no woman might. 

Cam. Sir, 'tis as a woman I say what I do, and 
I suppose myself a woman when I design all these 
favours to you. Therefore, out of that supposition, 
I have no other good intentions to you than you 
may expect from any one that says, he's — sir, your 
humble servant. 

Don Lor. So, unless Heaven is pleased to work 
a miracle, and from a sturdy young fellow make 
you a kind-hearted young lady, I'm to get little by 
your good opinion of me. 

Cam. Yes, there is one means yet left (on this 
side a miracle) that would perhaps engage me, if 
with an honest oath you could declare, were I 
woman, I might dispute your heart, even with the 
first of my pretending sex. 

Don Lor. Then solemnly and honestly I swear, 
that had you been a woman, and I the master of 
the world, I think I should have laid it at your feet. 

Cam. Then honestly and solemnly I swear, 
henceforwards all your interest shall be mine. 

Don Lor. I have a secret to impart to you will 
quickly try your friendship. 

Cam. I have a secret to unfold to you will put 
you even to a fiery trial. 

Don Lor. What do you mean, Camillo ? 

Cam. I mean that I love where I never durst 
yet own it, yet where 'tis in your power to make 
me the happiest of — 

Don Lor. Explain, Camillo ; and be assured, 
if your happiness is in my power, 'tis in your own. 



THE MISTAKE. 



445 



Cam. Alas ! you promise me you know not what. 

Don Lor. I promise nothing but what I will 
perform ; name the person. 

Cam. 'Tis one who's very near to you. 

Don Lor. If 'tis my sister, why all this pain in 
bringing forth the secret ? 

Cam. Alas ! it is your — 

Don Lor. Speak ! 

Cam. I cannot yet ; farewell ! 

Don Lor. Hold ! pray speak it now. 

Cam. I must not : but when you tell me your 
secret, you shall know mine. 

Don Lor. Mine is not in my power, without the 
consent of another. 

Cam. Get that consent, and then we'll try who 
best will keep their oaths. 

Don Lor. I am content. 

Cam, And I. Adieu! 

Don Lor. Farewell. [Exit. 

Enter Leonora and Jacinta, 

Leo. 'Tis enough : I will revenge myself this 
way, if it does but torment him. I shall be con- 
tent to find no other pleasure in it — Brother, you'll 
wonder at my change ; after all my ill usage of 
Lorenzo, I am determined to be his wife. 

Cam. How, sister! so sudden a turn? This 
inequality of temper indeed is not commendable. 

Leo. Your change, brother, is much more justly 
surprising ; you hitherto have pleaded for him 
strongly ; accused me of blindness, cruelty, and 
pride ; and now I yield to your reasons, and resolve 
in his favour, you blame my compliance, and appear 
against his interest. 

Cam. I quit his service for what's dearer to me, 
yours. I have learned from sure intelligence, the 
attack he made on you was but a feint, and that 
his heart is in another's chain : I would not there- 
fore see you so exposed, to offer up yourself to one 
who must refuse you. 

Leo. If that be all, leave me my honour to take 
care of; I am no stranger to his wishes ; he won't 
refuse me, brother, nor I hope will you, to tell him 
of my resolution : if you do, this moment with my 
own tongue (through all a virgin's blushes) I'll own 
to him I am determined in his favour. — You pause 
as if you'd let the task lie on me. 

Cam. Neither on you, nor me ; I have a reason 
you are yet a stranger to. 
Know then there is a virgin young and tender, 
Whose peace and happiness so much are mine, 
I cannot see her miserable ; 
She loves him with that torrent of desire, 
That were the world resign'd her in his stead, 
She'd still be wretched. 
I will not pique you to a female strife, 
By saying you have not charms to tear him from 

her; 
But I would move you to a female softness, 
By telling you her death would wait your conquest. 
What I have more to plead is as a brother, 
I hope that gives me some small interest in you ; 
Whate'er it is, you see how I'd employ it. 

Leo. You ne'er could put it to a harder service. 
I beg a little time to think : pray leave me to myself 
a while. 

Cam. I shall ; I only ask that you would think, 
And then you won't refuse me. 

[Exeunt Camillo and Isabella. 

Jac. Indeed, madam, I'm of your brother's mind 5 



though for another cause ; but sure 'tis worth 
thinking twice on for your own sake. You are too 
violent. 

Leo. A slighted woman knows no bounds. Ven- 
geance is all the cordial she can have, so snatches 
at the nearest. Ungrateful wretch ! to use me 
with such insolence. 

Jac. You see me as much enraged at it as you 
are yourself, yet my brain is roving after the cause, 
for something there must be ; never letter was 
received by man with more passion and transport ; 
I was almost as charming a goddess as yourself, 
only for bringing it. Yet when in a moment after 
I come with a message worth a dozen on't, never 
was witch so handled ; something must have passed 
between one and t'other, that's sure. 

Leo. Nothing could pass worth my inquiring 
after, since nothing could happen that can excuse 
his usage of me ; he had a letter under my hand 
which owned him master of my heart ; and till I 
contradicted it with my mouth he ought not to 
doubt the truth on't. 

Jac. Nay, I confess, madam, I han't a word to 
say for him, I'm afraid he's but a rogue at bottom, 
as well as my Shameless that attends him ; we are 
bit, by my troth, and haply well enough served, 
for listening to the glib tongues of the rascals. 
But be comforted, madam ; they'll fall into the 
hands of some foul sluts or other, before they die, 
that will set our account even with 'em. 

Leo. Well, let him laugh ; let him glory in 
what he has done : he shall see I have a spirit can 
use him as I ought. 

Jac. And let one thing be your comfort by the 
way, madam, that in spite of all your dear affec- 
tions to him, you have had the grace to keep him 
at arm's end. You han't thanked me for't ; but 
good faith 'twas well I did not stir out of the 
chamber that fond night. For there are times the 
stoutest of us are in danger, the rascals wheedle so. 

Leo. In short my very soul is fired with his 
treatment : and if ever that perfidious monster 
should relent, though he should crawl like a poor 
worm beneath my feet, nay, plunge a dagger in his 
heart, to bleed for pardon ; I charge thee strictly, 
charge thee on thy life, thou do not urge a look to 
melt me toward him, but strongly buoy me up 
in brave resentment ; and if thou seest (which 
Heavens avert !) a glance of weakness in me, rouse 
to my memory the vile wrongs I've borne, and 
blazon them with skill in all their glaring colours. 

Jac. Madam, never doubt me ; I'm charged to 
the mouth with fury, and if ever I meet that fat 
traitor of mine, such a volley will I pour about his 
ears ! — Now Heaven prevent all hasty vows ; but 
in the humour I am, methinks I'd carry my maiden- 
head to my cold grave with me, before I'd let it 
simper at the rascal. But soft ! here comes your 
father. 

Enter Don Alvarez. 

Don Alv. Leonora, I'd have you retire a little, 
and send your brother's tutor to me, Metaphrastus. 
— {Exeunt Leonora and Jacinta.] I'll try if I 
can discover, by his tutor, what 'tis that seems so 
much to work his brain of late ; for something 
more than common there plainly does appear, yet 
nothing sure that can disturb his soul, like what 
I have to torture mine on his account. Sure 
nothing in this world is worth a troubled mind ! 
What racks has avarice stretched me on ! I wanted 



446 



THE MISTAKE. 



nothing : kind Heaven had given me a plenteous lot, 
and seated me in great abundance. Why then 
approve I of this imposture ? What have I gained 
by it ? Wealth and misery. I have bartered 
peaceful days for restless nights ; a wretched bar- 
gain ! and he that merchandises thus must be 
undone at last. 

Enter Metaphrastus. 

Metaph. Mandatum tuum euro diligenter. 

Don Alv. Master, I had a mind to ask you — 

Metaph. The title, master, comes from magis 
and ter, which is as much as to say, thrice worthy. 

Don Alv. I never heard so much before, but it 
may be true for aught I know. But, master — 

Metaph. Go on. 

Don Alv. Why so I will if you'll let me, but 
don't interrupt me then. 

Metaph. Enough, proceed. 

Don Alv. Why then, master, for the third time, 
my son Camillo gives me much uneasiness of late ; 
you know I love him, and have many careful thoughts 
about him. 

Metaph. 'Tis true. Filio non potest prceferri, 
nisi filius. 

Don Alv. Master, when one has business to talk 
on, these scholastic expressions are not of use ; I 
believe you a great Latinist ; possibly you may 
understand Greek ; those who recommended you 
to me, said so, and I am willing it should be true : 
but the thing I want to discourse you about at 
present, does not properly give you an occasion to 
display your learning. Besides, to tell you truth, 
'twill at all times be lost upon me ; my father was 
a wise man, but he taught me nothing beyond com- 
mon sense ; I know but one tongue in the world, 
which luckily being understood by you as well as 
me, I fancy whatever thoughts we have to com- 
municate to one another, may reasonably be con- 
veyed in that, without having recourse to the 
language of Julius Caesar. 

Metaph. You are wrong, but may proceed. 

Don Alv. I thank you. What is the matter I 
do not know ; but though it is of the utmost con- 
sequence to me to marry my son, what match 
soever I propose to him, he still finds some pretence 
or other to decline it. 

Metaph. He is, perhaps, of the humour of a 
brother of Marcus Tullius, who — 

Don Alv. Dear master, leave the Greeks and 
the Latins, and the Scotch and the Welsh, and let 
me go on in my business ; what have those people 
to do with my son's marriage ? 

Metaph. Again you are wrong ; but go on. 
Don Alv. I say then, that I have strong appre- 
hensions, from his refusing all my proposals, that 
he may have some secret inclination of his own ; 
and to confirm me in this fear, I yesterday observed 
him (without his knowing it) in a corner of the 
grove where nobody comes — 

Metaph. A place out of the way, you would say ; 
a place of retreat. 

Don Alv. Why, the corner of the grove, where 
nobody comes, is a place of retreat, is it not ? 
Metaph. In Latin, secessus. 
Don Alv. Ha i 

Metaph. As Virgil has it, Est in secessu locus. 
Don Alv. How could Virgil have it, when I tell 
you no soul was there but he and I ? 

Metaph. Virgil is a famous author ; I quote his 
saying as a phrase more proper to the occasion than 



that you use, and not as one who was in the wood 
with you. 

Don Alv. And I tell you, I hope to be as famous 
as any Virgil of 'em all, when I have been dead as 
long, and have no need of a better phrase than my 
own to tell you my meaning. 

Metaph. You ought however to make choice of 
the words most used by the best authors. Tu 
vivendo bonos, as they say, scribendo sequare 
peritos. 

Don Alv. Again ! 

Metaph. 'Tis Quintilian's own precept. 

Don Alv. Oons ! 

Metaph. And he has something very learned 
upon it, that may be of service to you to hear. 

Don Alv. You son of a whore, will you hear me 
speak ? 

Metaph. What may be the occasion of this un- 
manly passion ? What is it you would have with me? 

Don Alv. What you might have known an hour 
ago, if you had pleased. 

Metaph. You would then have me hold my peace 
—I shall. 

Don Alv. You will do very well. 

Metaph. You see I do ; well, go on. 

Don Alv. Why then, to begin once again, I say 
my son Camillo — 

Metaph. Proceed ; I shan't interrupt you. 

Don Alv. I say, my son Camillo — 

Metaph. What is it you say of your son Camillo ? 

Don Alv. That he has got a dog of a tutor, 
whose brains I'll beat out if he won't hear me 



Metaph. That dog is a philosopher, contemns 
passion, and yet will hear you. 

Don Alv. I don't believe a word on't, but I'll 
try once again. I have a mind to know from you, 
whether you have observed anything in my son — 

Metaph. Nothing that is like his father. Go on. 

Don Alv. Have a care ! 

Metaph. I do not interrupt you ; but you are 
long in coming to a conclusion. 

Don Alv. Why, thou hast not let me begin yet ! 

Metaph. And yet it is high time to have made an 
end. 

Don Alv, Dost thou 1 know thy danger ? I have 
not — thus much patience left. 

[Showing the end of his finger. 

Metaph. Mine is already consumed. I do not 
use to be thus treated ; my profession is to teach, 
and not to hear, yet I have hearkened like a school- 
boy, and am not heard, although a master. 

Don Alv. Get out of the room ! 

Metaph. I will not. If the mouth of a wise 
man be shut, he is, as it were, a fool ; for who shall 
know his understanding? Therefore a certain 
philosopher said well, Speak, that thou mayest be 
known ; great talkers, without knowledge, are as 
the winds that whistle ; but they who have learning 
should speak aloud. If this be not permitted, we 
may expect to see the whole order of nature o'er- 
thrown ; hens devour foxes, and lambs destroy 
wolves, nurses suck children, and children give 
suck ; generals mend stockings, and chambermaids 
take towns ; we may expect, I say — 

Don Alv. That, and that, and that, and — 

[Strikes him and kicks him. 

Metaph. O tempora ! O mores ! 
[Exit, Don Alvarez following him with a bell at his ear. 



THE MISTAKE. 



447 



ACT III. 



SCENE I The Street before the House of Don 

Alvarez. 

Enter Lopez. 

Lop. Sometimes Fortune seconds a bold design, 
and when folly has brought us into a trap, impu- 
dence brings us out on't. I have been caught by 
this hot-headed lover here, and have told like a 
puppy what I shall be beaten for like a dog. Come ! 
courage, my dear Lopez ; fire will fetch out fire. 
Thou hast told one body thy master's secret, e'en 
tell it to half-a-dozen more, and try how that will 
thrive ; go tell it to the two old Dons, the lovers' 
fathers. The thing's done, and can't be retrieved ; 
perhaps they'll lay their two ancient heads together, 
club a pennyworth of wisdom a-piece, and with 
great penetration at last find out that 'tis best to 
submit where 'tis not in their power to do other- 
wise. This being resolved, there's no time to be 
l os t. [Knocks at Don Alvarez's door. 

Don Alv. [Within.'] Who knocks ? 

Lop. Lopez. 

Don Alv. [Looking out.} What dost want? 

Lop. To bid you good-morrow, sir. 

Doti Alv. Well, good-morrow to thee again. 

[Retires. 

Lop. What a — I think he does not care for my 
company. [Knocks again. 

Don Alv. I Within."] Who knocks ? 

Lop. Lopez. 

Don Alv. [Looking out.] What wouldst have ? 

Lop. My old master, sir, gives his service to you, 
and desires to know how you do. 

Don Alv. How I do ! why, well ; how should I 
do ? Service to him again. [Retires. 

Lop. Sir ! 

Don Alv. [Returning.] What the deuse wouldst 
thou have with me, with thy good-morrows and thy 
services ? 

Lop. [Aside.] This man does not understand 
good breeding, I find. — [Aloud.] Why, sir, my 
master has some very earnest business with you. 

Don Alv. Business ! about what ? What busi- 
ness can he have with me ? 

Lop. I don't know, truly ; but 'tis some very 
important matter. He has just now (as I hear) 
discovered some great secret, which he must needs 
talk with you about. 

Don Alv. Ha ! a secret, sayest thou? 

Lop. Yes ; and bid me bring him word if you 
were at home, he'd be with you presently. Sir, 
your humble servant. [Exit. 

Enter Don Alvarez, from the house. 

Don Alv. A secret ; and must speak with me 
about it ! Heavens, how I tremble ! What can 
this message mean ? I have very little acquaint- 
. ance with him, what business can he have with me ? 
An important secret 'twas, he said, and that he had 
just discovered it. Alas ! I have in the world but 
one, if it be that — I'm lost ; an eternal blot must 
fix upon me. How unfortunate am I, that I have 
not followed the honest counsels of my heart, which 
have often urged me to set my conscience at ease, 
by rendering to him the estate that is his due, and 



which by a foul imposture I keep from him ! But 
'tis now too late ; my villany is out, and I shall 
not only be forced with shame to restore him what 
is his, but shall be perhaps condemned to make him 
reparation with my own. O terrible view ! 

Enter Don Felix, 

Don Fel. [Aside.] My son to go and marry her 
without her father's knowledge ! This can never 
end well. I don't know what to do, he'll conclude 
I was privy to it, and his power and interest are so 
great at court he may with ease contrive my ruin • 
I tremble at his sending to speak with me. — Mercy 
on me, there he is ! 

Don Alv. [Aside.] Ah ! shield me, kind Hea- 
ven ! there's Don Felix come. How I am struck 
with the sight of him ! Oh, the torment of a guilty 
mind ! 

Don Fel. What shall I say to soften him ? [Aside. 

Don Alv. How shall I look him in the face ? 

[Aside. 

Don Fel. 'Tis impossible he can forgive it. 

[Aside. 

Don Alv. To be sure he'll expose me to the 
whole world. [Aside. 

Don Fel. I see his countenance change. [Aside. 

Don Alv. With what contempt he looks upon 
me ! [Aside. 

Don Fel. I see, Don Alvarez, by the disorder 
of your face you are but too well informed of what 
brings me here. 

Don Alv. 'Tis true. 

Don Fel. The news may well surprise you, 'tis 
what I have been far from apprehending. 

Don Alv. Wrong, very wrong, indeed. 

Don Fel. The action is certainly to the last 
point to be condemned, and I think nobody should 
pretend to excuse the guilty. 

Don Alv. They are not to be excused, though 
Heaven may have mercy. 

Don Fel. That's what I hope you will consider. 

Don Alv. We should act as Christians. 

Don Fel. Most certainly. 

Don Alv. Let mercy then prevail. 

Don Fel. It is indeed of heavenly birth. 

Don Alv. Generous Don Felix ! 

Don Fel. Too indulgent Alvarez ! 

Don Alv. I thank you on my knee. 

Don Fel. 'Tis I ought to have been there first. 

[They kneel. 

Don Alv. Is it then possible we are friends ? 

Don Fel. Embrace me to confirm it. 

[They embrace. 

Don Alv. Thou best of men ! 

Don Fel. Unlooked-for bounty ! 

Don Alv. [Rising.] Did you know the torment 
this unhappy action has given me — 

Don Fel. 'Tis impossible it could do otherwise ; 
nor has my trouble been less. 

Don Alv. But let my misfortune be kept secret. 

Don Fel. Most willingly ; my advantage is suf- 
ficient by it, without the vanity of making it public 
to the world. 

Don Alv. [Aside.] Incomparable goodness ! 
That I should thus have wronged a man so worthy 
— [Aloud.] My honour then is safe ? 



448 



THE MISTAKE. 



Don Fel. For ever, even for ever let it be a secret, 
I am content. 

Don A In, [Aside.] Noble gentleman ! — [Aloud.] 
As to what advantages ought to accrue to you by 
it, it shall be all to your entire satisfaction. 

DonFel. [Aside.] Wonderful bounty! — [Aloud.] 
As to that, Don Alvarez, I leave it entirely to you, 
and shall be content with whatever you think 
reasonable. 

Don Alv. I thank you, from my soul I must, 
you know I must — [Aside.] This must be an 
angel, not a man. 

Don Fel. The thanks lie on my side, Alvarez, 
for this unexpected generosity ; but may all faults 
be forgot, and Heaven ever prosper you ! 

Don Alv. The same prayer I, with a double 
fervour, offer up for you. 

Don Fel. Let us then once more embrace, and 
be forgiveness sealed for ever. 

Don Alv. Agreed ; thou best of men, agreed. 

[They embrace. 

Don Fel. This thing then being thus happily 
terminated, let me own to you, Don Alvarez, I 
was in extreme apprehensions of your utmost 
resentment on this occasion ; for I could not 
doubt but you had formed more happy views in 
the disposal of so fair a daughter as Leonora, than 
my poor son's inferior fortune e'er can answer : 
but since they are joined, and that — 

Don Alv. Ha ! 

Don Fel. Nay, 'tis very likely to discourse of it 
may not be very pleasing to you, though your Chris- 
tianity and natural goodness have prevailed on you 
so generously to forgive it. But to do justice to 
Leonora, and screen her from your too harsh 
opinion in this unlucky action, 'twas that cunning 
wicked creature that attends her, who by unusual 
arts wrought her to this breach of duty, for her 
own inclinations were disposed to all the modesty 
and resignation a father could ask from a daughter ; 
my son I can't excuse, but since your bounty does 
so, I hope you'll quite forget the fault of the less- 
guilty Leonora. 

Don Alv. [Aside.] What a mistake have I lain 
under here ! and from a groundless apprehension 
of one misfortune, find myself in the certainty of 
another. 

Don Fel. He looks disturbed ; what can this 
mean ? [Aside. 

Don Alv. [Aside.] My daughter married to his 
son ! — Confusion ! But I find myself in such unruly 
agitation, something wrong may happen if I con- 
tinue with him ; I'll therefore leave him. 

Don Fel. You seem thoughtful, sir ; I hope 
there's no — 

Don Alv. A sudden disorder I am seized with ; 
you'll pardon me, I must retire. [Exit. 

Don Fel. I don't like this : — he went oddly off. 
— I doubt he finds this bounty difficult to go 
through with. His natural resentment is making 
an attack upon his acquired generosity : pray 
Heaven it ben't too strong for't. The misfortune 
is a great one, and can't but touch him nearly. 
It was not natural to be so calm ; I wish it don't 
yet drive him to my ruin. But here comes this 
young hot-brained coxcomb, who with his midnight 
amours has been the cause of all this mischief to 
me. 



Enter Don Lorenzo. 

So, sir, are you come to receive my thanks for 
your noble exploit ? You think you have done 
bravely now, ungracious offspring, to bring per- 
petual troubles on me ! Must there never pass a 
day, but I must drink some bitter potion or other 
of your preparation for me ? 

Don Lor. I am amazed, sir ; pray what have I 
done to deserve your anger ? 

Don Fel. Nothing, no manner of thing in the 
woi-ld ; nor never do. I am an old testy fellow, 
and am always scolding, and finding fault for 
nothing ; complaining that I have got a coxcomb 
of a son that makes me weary of my life, fancying 
he perverts the order of nature, turning day into 
night, and night into day ; getting whims in my 
brain, that he consumes his life in idleness, unless 
he rouses now and then to do some noble stroke 
of mischief ; and having an impertinent dream at 
this time, that he has been making the fortune of 
the family, by an underhand marriage with the 
daughter of a man who will crush us all to powder 
for it. Ah — ungracious wretch, to bring an old 
man into all this trouble ! The pain thou gavest 
thy mother to bring thee into the world, and the 
plague thou hast given me to keep thee here, 
make the getting thee (though 'twas in our honey- 
moon) a bitter remembrance to us both. [Exit. 

Don Lor. So, all's out ! — Here's a noble storm 
arising, and I'm at sea in a cock-boat ! But which 
way could this business reach him ? by this traitor 
Lopez — it must be so ; it could be no other way ; 
for only he, and the priest that married us, know 
of it. The villain will never confess though : I 
must try a little address with him, and conceal my 
anger. — Oh ! here he comes. 

Re-enter Lopez. 

Lopez ! 

Lop. Do you call, sir ? 

Don Lor. I find all's discovered to my father ; 
the secret's out ; he knows my marriage. 

Lop. He knows your marriage ! — How the pest 
should that happen ? Sir, 'tis impossible ! — that's 
all. 

Don Lor. I tell thee 'tis true ; he knows every 
particular of it. 

Lop. He does ! — Why then, sir, all I can say 
is, that Satan and he are better acquainted than 
the devil and a good Christian ought to be. 

Don Lor. Which way he has discovered it I 
can't tell, nor am I much concerned to know, 
since, beyond all my expectations, I find him per- 
fectly easy at it, and ready to excuse my fault with 
better reasons than I can find to do it myself. 

Lop. Say you so ? — I'm very glad to hear that ; 
then all's safe. [Aside. 

Don Lor. 'Tis unexpected good fortune ; but it 
could never proceed purely from his own temper ; 
there must have been pains taken with him to bring 
him to this calm. I'm sure I owe much to the 
bounty of some friend or other ; I wish I knew 
where my obligation lay, that I might acknowledge 
it as I ought. 

Lop. [Aside.] Are you thereabouts, i'faith? 
Then sharp's the word ; egad I'll own the thing, 
and receive his bounty for't. — [Aloud.] Why, sir 
— not that I pretend to make a merit o' the matter, 
for, alas ! I am but your poor hireling, and there- 



SCENE I. 



THE MISTAKE. 



449 



fore bound in duty to render you all the service 1 
can ; — but — 'tis I have done't. 

Don Lor. What hast thou done ? 

Lop. What no man else could have done — the 
job, sir ; told him the secret, and then talked him 
into a liking on't. 

Don Lor. 'Tis impossible ; thou dost not tell me 
true. 

Lop. Sir, I scorn to reap anything from another 
man's labours ; but if this poor piece of service car- 
ries any merit with it, you now know where to 
reward it. 

Don Lor. Thou art not serious ? 

Lop. I am, or may hunger be my messmate ! 

Don Lor. And may famine be mine, if I don't 
reward thee for't as thou deservest ! — Dead ! 

[Making a pass at him. 

Lop. Have a care there ! — [Leaping on one 
side.'] What do you mean, sir? I bar all sur- 
prise. 

Don Lor. Traitor ! is this the fruit of the trust 
I placed in thee, villain ! 

[Making another thrust at him. 

Lop. Take heed, sir ! you'll do one a mischief 
before y'are aware. 

Don Lor, What recompense canst thou make 
me, wretch, for this piece of treachery ? Thy 
sordid blood can't expiate the thousandth ! — But 
I'll have it, however. [Thrusts again. 

Lop. Look you there again ! Pray, sir, be 
quiet ; is the devil in you ? 'Tis bad jesting with 
edged tools. Egad, that last push was within an 
inch o'me ! I don't know what you make all this 
bustle about ; but I'm sure I've done all for the 
best, and I believe 'twill prove for the best too at 
last, if you'll have but a little patience. But if 

gentlemen will be in their airs in a moment 

Why, what the deuse — I'm sure I have been as 
eloquent as Cicero in your behalf! and I don't 
doubt, to good purpose too, if you'll give things 
time to work. But nothing but foul language, and 
naked swords about the house ! — Sa, sa ! run you 
through, you dog ! Why nobody can do business 
at this rate. 

Don Lor. And suppose your project fail, and 
I'm ruined by't, sir ! 

Lop. Why, 'twill be time enough to kill me then, 
sir ; won't it ? What should you do it for now ? 
Besides, I an't ready, I'm not prepared ; I might 
be undone by't. 

Don Lor. But what will Leonora say to her 
marriage being known, wretch ? 

Lop. Why maybe she'll draw — her sword too. 
— [Showing his tongue.] But all shall be well 
with you both, if you will but let me alone. 

Don Lor. Peace ! here's her father. 

Lop. That's well : we shall see how things go 
presently. 

Re-enter Don Alvarez. 

DonAlv. [Aside.] The more I recover from the dis- 
order this discourse has put me in, the more strange 
the whole adventure appears to me. Leonora main- 
tains there is not a word of truth in what I have 
heard ; that she knows nothing of marriage : and, 
indeed, she tells me this with such a naked air of 
sincerity, that, for my part, I believe her. What 
then must be their project ? Some villanous inten- 
tion, to be sure ; though which way I yet am 
ignorant. — But here's the bridegroom ; I'll accost 
him. — [Aloud.] I am told, sir, you take upon you 



to scandalise my daughter, and tell idle tales of 
what can never happen. 

Lop. Now methinks, sir, if you treated your 
son-in-law with a little more civility, things might 
go just as well in the main. 

Don Alv. What means this insolent fellow by 
my son-in-law ! I suppose 'tis you, villain, are the 
author of this impudent story. 

Lop. You seem angry, sir ; — perhaps without 
cause. 

Don Alv. Cause, traitor ! Is a cause wanting, 
where a daughter's defamed, and a noble family 
scandalised ? 

Lop. There he is, let him answer you. 

Don Alv. I should be glad he'd answer me : 
why, if he had any desires to my daughter, he did 
not make his approaches like a man of honour. 

Lop. Yes ; and so have had the doors bolted 
against him, like a house-breaker. [Aside. 

Don Lor. Sir, to justify my proceeding, I have 
little to say ; but to excuse it, I have much, if any 
allowance may be made to a passion which, in your 
youth, you have yourself been swayed by. I love 
your daughter to that excess — 

Don Alv. You would undo her for a night's 
lodging. 

Don Lor. Undo her, sir ! 

Don Alv. Yes, that's the word. You knew it 
was against her interest to marry you, therefore 
you endeavoured to win her to't in private ; you 
knew her friends would make a better bargain for 
her, therefore you kept your designs from their 
knowledge, and yet you love her to that excess — 

Don Lor. I'd readily lay down my life to serve 
her. 

Don Alv. Could you readily lay down fifty thou- 
sand pistoles to serve her, your excessive love would 
come with better credentials : an offer of life is very 
proper for the attack of a counterscarp, but a thou- 
sand ducats will sooner carry a lady's heart. You 
are a young man, but will learn this when you are 
older. 

Lop. But since things have succeeded better 
this once, sir, and that my master will prove a most 
incomparable good husband (for that he'll do, I'll 
answer for him), and that 'tis too late to recal 
what's already done, sir — 

Don Alv. What's done, villain ? 

Lop. Sir, I mean — that since my master and 
my lady are married, and — 

Don Alv. Thou liest ! they are not married. 

Lop. Sir, I say — that since they are married, 
aud that they love each other so passing dearly — 
indeed, I fancy — that — 

Don Alv. Why, this impudence is beyond all 
bearing ! Sir, do you put your rascal upon this ? 

Don Lor. Sir, I am in a wood ! I don't know 
what it is you mean. 

Don Alv. And I am in a plain, sir, and think 
I may be understood. Do you pretend you are 
married to my daughter ? 

Don Lor. Sir, 'tis my happiness on one side, as 
it is my misfortune on another. 

Don Alv. And you do think this idle project can 
succeed ? You do believe your affirming you are 
married to her will induce both her and me to 
consent it shall be so ? 

Lop. Sir, I see you make my master almost out 
of his wits to hear you talk so : but I, who am but 
a stander-by now, as I was at the wedding, have 
G G 



450 



THE MISTAKE. 



ACT III. 



mine about me, and desire to know, whether you 
think this project can succeed ? Do you believe 
your affirming they are not married, will induce 
both him and I to give up the lady ? One short 
question to bring this matter to an issue, — why do 
you think they are not married ? 

Don Alv. Because she utterly renounces it. 

Lop. And so she will her religion, if you attack 
it with that dreadful face. D'ye hear, sir? the 
poor lady is in love heartily, and I wish all poor 
ladies that are so, would dispose of themselves so 
well as she has done ; but you scare her out of her 
senses. Bring her here into the room, speak gently 
to her, tell her you know the thing is done, that 
you have it from a man of honour, — me : that 
maybe you wish it had been otherwise, but are a 
Christian, and profess mercy, and therefore have 
resolved to pardon her. Say this, and I shall 
appear a man of reputation, and have satisfaction 
made me. 

Don Alv. Or an impudent rogue, and have all 
your bones broke. 

Lop. Content! 

Don Alv. Agreed ! — Leonora ! — Who's there ? 
call Leonora. 

Lop. All will go rarely, sir ; we shall have shot 
the gulf in a moment. [.Aside to Lorenzo. 

Enter Leonora. 

Don Alv. Come hither, Leonora. 

Lop. So, now we shall see. 

Don Alv. I called you to answer for youself ; 
here's a strong claim upon you ; if there be any 
thing in the pretended title, conceal it no farther, 
it must be known at last, it may as well be so now. 
Nothing is so uneasy as uncertainty, I would there- 
fore be gladly freed from it. If you have done 
what I am told you have, 'tis a great fault indeed ; 
but as I fear 'twill carry much of its punishment 
along with it, I shall rather reduce my resentment 
into mourning your misfortune, than suffer it to 
add to your affliction ; therefore speak the truth. 

Lop. Well, this is fair play ; now I speak, sir. — 
You see, fair lady, the goodness of a tender father, 
nothing need therefore hinder you from owning a 
most loving husband. We had like to have been all 
together by the ears about this business, and pails 
of blood were ready to run about the house : but 
thank Heaven, the sun shines out again, and one 
word from your sweet mouth makes fair weather 
for ever. My master has been forced to own your 
marriage, he begs you'll do so too. 

Leo. What does this impudent rascal mean ? 

Lop. Ha ! — madam ! 

Leo. [To Don Lorenzo] Sir, I should be very 
glad to know what can have been the occasion of 
this wild report ; sure you cannot be yourself a 
party in it ! 

Lop. He, he — 

Don Lor. Forgive me, dear Leonora, I know you 
had strong reasons for the secret being longer kept ; 
but 'tis not my fault, our marriage is disclosed. 

Leo. Our marriage, sir ! — 

Don Lor. 'Tis known, my dear, though much 
against my will ; but since it is so, 'twould be in 
vain for us to deny it longer. 

Leo. Then, sir, I am your wife ? I fell in love 
with you, and married you without my father's 
knowledge ? 

Don Lor. I dare not be so vain to think 'twas 



love ; I humbly am content to owe the blessing to 
your generosity ; 

You saw the pains I suffer'd for your sake, 
And in compassion eased 'em. 

Leo. I did, sir ! 

Sure this exceeds all human impudence! 

Lop. Truly, I think it does. She'd make an in- 
comparable actress. [Aside. 

Don Lor. I begin to be surprised, madam, at 
your carrying this thing so far ; you see there's no 
occasion for it ; and for the discovery, I have already 
told you 'twas not my fault. 

Lop. My master's ! no, 'twas I did it. Why, 
what a bustle's here ! I knew things would go 
well, and so they do, if folks would let 'em. But 
if ladies will be in their merriments, when gentle- 
men are upon serious business, why what a deuse 
can one say to 'em ! 

Leo. I see this fellow is to be an evidence in 
your plot. Where you hope to drive, it is hard to 
guess ; for if anything can exceed its impudence, 
it is its folly. A noble stratagem indeed to win a 
lady by ! I could be diverted with it, but that I 
see a face of villany requires a rougher treatment : 
I could almost, methinks, forget my sex, and be 
my own avenger. 

Don Lor. Madam, I am surprised beyond all — 

Lop. Pray, sir, let me come to her ; you are so 
surprised you'll make nothing on't : she wants a 
little snubbing. — Look you, madam, I have seen 
many a pleasant humour amongst ladies, but you 
outcut 'em all. Here's contradiction with a ven- 
geance ! You han't been married eight-and-forty 
hours, and you are slap — at your husband's beard 
already. Why, do you consider who he is ? — who 
this gentleman is ? — and what he can do — by law ? 
Why, he can lock you up — knock you down — tie 
you neck and heels — 

Don Lor. Forbear, you insolent villain, you ! 

[Offering to strike him. 

Leo. That — for what's past however. 

[Giving him a box on the ear. 

Lop. I think — she gave me a box o' th' ear ; 
ha ! — [Exit Leonora.] Sir, will you suffer your 
old servants to be used thus by new comers ? It's 
a shame, a mere shame. 1 Sir, will you take a poor 
dog's advice for once ? She denies she's married 
to you : take her at her word ; you have seen some 
of her humours, — let her go. 

Don Alv. Well, gentlemen, thus far you see I 
have heard all with patience ; have you content ? 
or how much farther do you design to go with this 
business ? 

Lop. Why truly, sir, I think we are near at a stand. 

Don Alv. 'Tis time, you villain you ! 

Lop. Why and I am a villain now, if every word 
I've spoke be not as true as — as the Gazette : and 
your daughter's no better than a — a — a whimsical 
young woman, for making disputes among gentle- 
men. And if everybody had their deserts, she'd 
have a good — I won't speak it out to inflame 
reckonings ; but let her go, master. 

Don Alv. Sir, I don't think it well to spend any 
more words with your impudent and villanous ser- 
vant here. 

Lop. Thank you, sir : but I'd let her go. 

Don Alv. Nor have I more to say to you than 
this, that you must not think so daring an affront 
to my family can go long unresented. Farewell ! 

[Exit. 



THE MISTAKE. 



461 



Don Lor. Well, sir, what have you to say for 
yourself now ? 

Lop. Why, sir, I have only to say, that I am a 
very unfortunate — middle-aged man ; and that I 
believe all the stars upon heaven and earth have 
been concerned in my destiny. Children now un- 
born will hereafter sing my downfal in mournful 
lines, and notes of doleful tune : I am at present 
troubled in mind, despair around me, signified in 
appearing gibbets, with a great bundle of dog-whips 
by way of preparation. 

I therefore will go seek some mountain high, 
If high enough some mountain may be found, 
With distant valley, dreadfully profound, 
And from the horrid cliff — look calmly all around. 
Farewell ! 



Don Lor. No, sirrah : I'll see your wretched 
end myself. Die here, villain ! IDrawing his sword. 

Lop. I can't, sir, if anybody looks upon me. 

Don Lor. Away, you trifling wretch ! but think 
not to escape, for thou shalt have thy recompense. 

[Exit. 

Lop. Why, what a mischievous jade is this, to 
make such an uproar in a family the first day of 
her marriage ! Why, my master won't so much as 
get a honeymoon out of her ! Egad, I'd let her go. 
If she be thus in her soft and tender youth, she'll 
be rare company at threescore. Well, he may do 
as he pleases ; but were she my dear, I'd let her go 
— such afoot at her tail, I'd make the truth bounce 
out at her mouth like a pellet out of a pot-gun. 

[Exit. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I A Street. 

Enter Camillo and Isabella. 



Isab. 'Tis an unlucky accident indeed i 

Cam. Ah, Isabella, fate has now determined my 
undoing ! This thing can ne'er end here ; Leonora 
and Lorenzo must soon come to some explanation ; 
the dispute is too monstrous to pass over without 
further inquiry, which must discover all, and what 
will be the consequence I tremble at. For whether 
Don Alvarez knows of the imposture, or whether 
he is deceived with the rest of the world, when once 
it breaks out, and that the consequence is the loss 
of that great wealth he now enjoys by it, what must 
become of me ? All paternal affections then must 
cease, and regarding me as an unhappy instrument 
in the trouble which will then o'erload him, he will 
return me to my humble birth, and then I'm lost 
for ever. For what, alas ! will the deceived Lo- 
renzo say ? A wife, with neither fortune, birth, 
nor beauty, instead of one most plenteously en- 
dowed with all. O Heavens ! what a sea of misery 
I have before me ! 

Lsab. Indeed you reason right, but these reflec- 
tions are ilUtimed ; why did you not employ them 
sooner ? 

Cam. Because I loved. 

Isab. And don't you do so now ? 

Cam. I do, and therefore 'tis I make these cruel 
just reflections. 

Isab. So that love, I find, can do anything. 

Cam. Indeed it can. Its powers are wondrous 
great, its pains no tongue can tell, its bliss no 
heart conceive, crowns cannot recompense its tor- 
ments, heaven scarce supplies its joys. My stake 
is of this value. Oh, counsel me how I shall 
save it ! 

Isab. Alas ! that counsel's much beyond my 
wisdom's force, I see no way to help you. 

Cam. And yet 'tis sure there's one. 

Isab. What? 

Cam. Death. 

Isab. There possibly may be another ; I have a 
thought this moment — perhaps there's nothing in 
it ; yet a small passage comes to my remembrance, 
that I regarded little when it happened — I'll go and 
search for one may be of service. But hold ; I see 



Don Carlos. He'll but disturb us now, let us avoid 
him. {Exeunt. 

Enter Don Carlos and Sancho. 

Don Car. Repulsed again ! this is not to be 
borne. What though this villain's story be a false- 
hood, was I to blame to hearken to it ? This usage 
cannot be supported : how was it she treated 
thee? 

San. Never was ambassador worse received. 
Madam, my master asks ten thousand pardons, and 
humbly begs one moment's interview : — Begone, 
you rascal you ! Madam, what answer shall I give 
my master? — Tell him he's a villain. Indeed, fair 
lady, I think this is hasty treatment. — Here, my 
footmen ! toss me this fellow out at the window ; 
— and away she went to her devotions. 

Don Car. Did you see Jacinta ? 

San. Yes ; she saluted me with half-a-score 
rogues and rascals too. I think our destinies are 
much alike, sir : and, o' my conscience, a couple of 
scurvy jades we are hampered with. 

Don Car. Ungrateful woman ! to receive with 
such contempt so quick a return of a heart so 
justly alarmed. 

San. Ha! ha! ha! 

Don Car. What, no allowance to be made to 
the first transports of a lover's fury, when roused 
by so dreadful an appearance ! As just as my sus- 
picions were, have I long suffered 'em to arraign 
her ? 

San. No. 

Don Car. Have I waited for oaths or impreca- 
tions to clear her ? 

San. No. 

Don Car. Nay, even now is not the whole world 
still in suspense about her ? whilst I alone conclude 
her innocent. 

San. 'Tis very true. 

Don Car. She might, methinks, through this 
profound respect, 
Observe a flame another would have cherish' d ; 
She might support me against groundless fears, 
And save me from a rival's tyranny ; 
She might release me from these cruel racks, 
And would, no doubt, if she could love as I do. 

San. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

GG2 



452 



THE MISTAKE. 



Don Car. But since she don't, what do I whining 
here ? 
Curse on the base humilities of love ! 

San. Right. 

Don Car. Let children kiss the rod that flays 'em, 
Let dogs lie down, and lick the shoe that spurns 'em. 

San. Ay. 

Don Car. I am a man by nature meant for 
power; 
The sceptre's given us to wield, and we 
Betray our trust whenever 
We meanly lay it at a woman's feet. 

San. True, we are men, boo ! — Come, master, 
let us both be in a passion ; here's my sceptre. — 
[Showing a cudgel.] Subject Jacinta, look about 
you. Sir, was you ever in Muscovy ? the women 
tbere love the men dearly ; why ? because — [shaking 
his stick] there's your love-powder for you. Ah, 
sir, were we but wise and stout, what work should 
we make with them ! But this humble love-making 
spoils 'em all. A rare way indeed to bring mat- 
ters about with 'em ! We are persuading 'em all 
day they are angels and goddesses, in order to use 
'em at night like human creatures ; we are like 
to succeed truly ! 

Don Car. For my part, I never yet could bear 
a slight from anything, nor will I now. There's 
but one way, however, to resent it from a woman ; 
and that's to drive her bravely from your heart, 
and place a worthier in her vacant throne. 

San. Now, with submission to my betters, I 
have another way, sir ; I'll drive my tyrant from 
my heart, and place myself in her throne. Yes ; 
I will be lord of my own tenement, and keep my 
household in order. Would you would do so too, 
master ! For, look you, I have been servitor in a 
college at Salamanca, and read philosophy with 
the doctors ; where I found that a woman, in all 
times, has been observed to be an animal hard to 
understand, and much inclined to mischief. Now, 
as an animal is always an animal, and a captain 
always a captain, so a woman is always a woman : 
whence it is that a certain Greek says, her head is 
like a bank of sand ; or, as another, a solid rock ; 
or, according to a third, a dark lantern. Pray, 
sir, observe, for this is close reasoning ; and so as 
the head is the head of the body ; and that the 
body without a head, is like a head without a tail ; 
and that where there is neither head nor tail, 'tis 
a very strange body : so I say a woman is by com- 
parison, do you see, (for nothing explains things 
like comparisons,) I say by comparison, as Aris- 
totle has often said before me, one may compare 
her to the raging sea. For as the sea, when the 
wind rises, knits its brows like an angry bull, and 
that waves mount upon rocks, and rocks mount 
upon waves ; that porpoises leap like trouts, and 
whales skip about like gudgeons ; that ships roll 
like beer-barrels, and mariners pray like saints ; 

just so, I say, a woman A woman, I say, just so, 

when her reason is shipwrecked upon her passion, 
and the hulk of her understanding lies thumping 
against the rock of her fury ; then it is, I say, that 
by certain immotions, which — um — cause, as one 
may suppose, a sort of convulsive — yes — hurri- 
canious — um — like — in short, a woman is like the 
devil. 

Don Car. Admirably reasoned indeed, Sancho ! 

San. Pretty well, I thank Heaven. — But here 
come the crocodiles to weep us into mercy. 



Enter Leonora and Jacinta. 
Master, let us show ourselves men, and leave their 
briny tears to wash their dirty faces. 

Don Car. It is not in the power of charms to 
move me. 

San. Nor me, I hope ; and yet I fear those eyes 
Will look out sharp to snatch up such a prize. 

[Pointing to Jacinta. 

Jac. He's coming to us, madam, to beg pardon ; 
but sure you'll never grant it him ! 

Leo. If I do, may Heaven never grant me mine. 

Jac. That's brave. 

Don Car. You look, madam, upon me as if you 
thought I came to trouble you with my usual 
importunities ; I'll ease you of that pain, by telling 
you, my business now is calmly to assure you, but 
I assure it you with heaven and hell for seconds ; 
for may the joys of one fly from me, whilst the 
pains of t'other overtake me, if all your charms 
displayed e'er shake my resolution ; I'll never see 
you more. 

San. Bon ! 

Leo. You are a man of that nice honour, sir, I 
know you'll keep your word : I expected this 
assurance from you, and came this way only to 
thank you for't. 

Jac. Very well ! 

Don Car. You did, imperious dame, you did ! 
How base is woman's pride ! How wretched are 
the ingredients it is formed of ! If you saw cause 
for just disdain, why did you not at first repulse 
me ? Why lead a slave in chains, that could not 
grace your triumphs ? If I am thus to be con- 
temned, think on the favours you have done the 
wretch, and hide your face for ever. 

San. Well argued. 

Leo. I own you have hit the only fault the world 
can charge me with : the favours I have done to 
you I am indeed ashamed of; but, since women 
have their frailties, you'll allow me mine. 

Don Car. 'Tis well, extremely well, madam. 
I'm happy, however, you at last speak frankly. I 
thank you for it ; from my soul I thank you : but 
don't expect me grovelling at your feet again ; 
don't, for if I do — 

Leo. You will be treated as you deserve ; trod 
upon. 

Don Car. Give me patience ! — But I don't want 
it ; I am calm. Madam, farewell ; be happy if you 
can ; by Heavens I wish you so, but never spread 
your net for me again ; for if you do — 

Leo. You'll be running into it. 

Don Car. Rather run headlong into fire and 
Rather be torn with pincers bit from bit ; [flames ; 
Rather be broil'd like martyrs upon gridirons ! — 
But I am wrong ; this sounds like passion, and 
Heaven can tell I am not angry. Madam, I think 
we have no farther business together ; your most 
humble servant. 

Leo. Farewell t'ye, sir. 

Don Car. [To Sancho.] Come along. — [Goes 
to the scene and returns.] Yet once more before I 
go (lest you should doubt my resolution) may I 
starve, perish, rot, be blasted, dead, damned, or 
any other thing that men or gods can think on, if 
on any occasion whatever, civil or military, pleasure 
or business, love or hate, or any other accident of 
life, I, from this moment, change one word or look 
with you. [As he goes off, Sancho claps him on the back. 

Leo. Content ! — Come away, Jacinta. 



SCENE I. 



THE MISTAKE. 



453 



Re-enter Don Carlos. 
Don Car. Yet one word, madam, if you please. 
I have a little thing here belongs to you, a foolish 
bauble I once was fond of. — [ Twitching her pic- 
ture from his breast.'] Will you accept a trifle 
from your servant ? 

Leo. Willingly, sir. I have a bauble too I think 
you have some claim to ; you'll wear it for my sake. 
[Breaks a bracelet from Tier arm, and gives it Mm. 
Don Car. Most thankfully. This too I should 
restore you, it once was yours. — [Giving her a 
table-book.] By your favour, madam — there is a 
line or two in it I think you did me once the 
honour to write with your own fair hand. Here 
it is. [Reads. 

You love me, Carlos, and would know 
The secret movements of my heart, 
Whether I give you mine or no, 
With yours, meihinks, I'd never, never part. 
Thus you have encouraged me, and thus you have 
deceived me. 
San. Very true. 

Leo. [Pulling out a table-book.] I have some 
faithful lines too ; I think I can produce 'em. 

[Reads. 
How long soe'er, to sigh in vain, 

My destiny may prove, 
My fate {in spite of your disdain) 
Will let me glory in your chain, 
And give me leave eternally to love. 
There, sir, take your poetry again. — [Throwing it 
at his feet.] Tis not much the worse for my wear- 
ing ; 'twill serve again upon a fresh occasion. 
Jac. Well done ! 

Don Car. I believe I can return the present, 

madam, with — a pocketfull of your prose. — There ! 

[Throiving a handful of letters at her feet. 

Leo. Jacinta, give me his letters. — There, sir, 

not to be behindhand with you. 

[Takes a handful of his letters out of a box, and throws 

them in his face. 
Jac. And there ! and there ! and there, sir ! 

[Jacinta throws the rest at him. 

San. 'Cods my life, we want ammunition ! but 

for a shift — there ! and there ! you saucy slut you ! 

[Sancho pulls a pack of dirty cards out of his pocket, 

and throws them at her; then they close ; he pulls off 

her headclothes, and she his wig, and then part, she 

running to her mistress, he to his master. 

Jac. I think, madam, we have clearly the better 

on't. 

Leo. For a proof, I resolve to keep the field. 
Jac. Have a care he don't rally and beat you 
yet though : pray walk off. 
Leo. Fear nothing. 

San. How the armies stand and gaze at one 
another after the battle ! What think you, sir, of 
showing yourself a great general, by making an 
honourable retreat? 

Don Car. I scorn it ! — O Leonora ! Leonora ! 
a heart like mine should not be treated thus ! 

Leo. Carlos ! Carlos ! I have not deserved this 
usage ! 

Don Car. Barbarous Leonora ! but 'tis useless 
to reproach you ; she that is capable of what you 
have done, is formed too cruel ever to repent of* it. 
Go on then, tyrant ; make your bliss complete ; 
torment me still, for still, alas ! I love enough to 
be tormented. 

Leo. Ah Carlos ! little do you know the tender 



movements of that thing you name ; the heart 
where love presides, admits no thought against the 
honour of its ruler. 

Don Car. 'Tis not to call that honour into doubt, 
If, conscious of our own unworthiness, 
We interpret every frown to our destruction. 

Leo. When jealousy proceeds from such humble 
apprehensions, it shows itself with more respect 
than yours has done. 

Don Car. And where a heart is guiltless, it 
easily forgives a greater crime. 

Leo. Forgiveness is not now in our debate ; if 
both have been in fault, 'tis fit that both should 
suffer for it ; our separation will do justice on us. 

Don Car. But since we are ourselves the judges 
of our crimes, what if we should inflict a gentler 
punishment ? 

Leo. 'Twould but encourage us to sin again. 

Don Car. And if it should — 

Leo. 'Twould give a fresh occasion for the pleas- 
ing exercise of mercy. 

Don Car. Right ; and so 
We act the part of earth and heaven together, 
Of men and gods, and taste of both their pleasures. 

Leo. The banquet's too inviting to refuse it. 

Don Car. Then let's fall on, and feed upon'tfor 
ever. 
[Carries her off, embracing her, and kissing her hand. 

Leo. Ah woman ! foolish, foolish woman ! 

San. Very foolish indeed. 

Jac. But don't expect I'll follow her example. 

San. You would, Mopsy, if I'd let you. 

Jac. I'd sooner tear my eyes out ; ah — that she 
had a little of my spirit in her ! 

San. I believe I shall find thou hast a great deal 
of her flesh, my charmer ; but 'twon't do ; I am 
all rock, hard rock, very marble. 

Jac. A very pumice stone, you rascal you, if one 
would try thee ! But to prevent thy humilities, 
and show thee all submission, would be vain ; to 
convince thee thou hast nothing but misery and 
despair before thee, here — take back thy paltry thim- 
ble, and be in my debt, for the shirts I have made 
thee with it. 

San. Nay, if y'are at that sport, mistress, I be- 
lieve I shall lose nothing by the balance of the 
presents. There, take thy tobacco-stopper, and 
stop thy — 

Jac. Here — take thy satin pincushion, with thy 
curious half hundred of pins in't, thou madest such 
a vapouring about yesterday. Tell 'em carefully, 
there's not one wanting. 

San. There's thy ivory-hafted knife again, whet 
it well ; 'tis so blunt 'twill cut nothing but love. 

Jac. And there's thy pretty pocket scissars thou 
hast honoured me with, they'll cut off a leg or an 
arm. Heaven bless 'em ! 

San. Here's the enchanted handkerchief you 
were pleased to endear with your precious blood, 
when the violence of your love at dinner t'other 
day made you cut your fingers. — There. 

[Blows his nose in it and gives it her. 

Jac. The rascal so provokes me, I won't even 
keep his paltry garters from him. D' you see 
these ? You pitiful beggarly scoundrel you ! — 
There, take 'em, there. 

[She takes her garters off, and flaps them about his face. 

San. I have but one thing more of thine. — 
[Showing his cudgel.] I own 'tis the top of all 
thy presents, and might be useful to me ; but that 



454 



THE MISTAKE. 



ACT V* 



thou mayest have nothing to upbraid me with, 
e'en take it again with the rest of em, 

{Lifting it up to strike her, she leaps about his neck. 

Jac. Ah cruel Sancho ! — Now beat me, Sancho, 
do, 

San. Rather, like Indian beggars, beat my pre- 
cious self. [Throws away his stick, and embraces her. 
Rather let infants' blood about the streets, 
Rather let all the wine about the cellar. 



Rather let — Oh Jacinta — thou hast o'ercome. 
How foolish are the great resolves of man ! 
Resolves, which we neither would keep, nor can. 
When those bright eyes in kindness please to shine, 
Their goodness I must needs return with mine : 
Bless my Jacinta in her Sancho' s arms — 

Jac. And I my Sancho with Jacinta's charms. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I.— A Street. 
Enter Lopez. 



Lop. As soon as it is night, says my master to 
me, though it cost me my life, I'll enter Leonora's 
lodgings ; therefore make haste, Lopez, prepare 
everything necessary, three pair of pocket-pistols, 
two wide-mouthed blunderbusses, some six ells of 
sword-blade, and a couple of dark lanterns. When 
my master said this to me ; Sir, said I to my mas- 
ter, (that is, I would have said it if I had not been 
in such a fright I could say nothing, however I'll 
say it to him now, and shall probably have a quiet 
hearing,) look you, sir, by dint of reason I intend 
to confound you. You are resolved, you say, to 
get into Leonora's lodgings though the devil stand 
in the doorway ? — Yes, Lopez, that's my resolu- 
tion. — Very well ; and what do you intend to do 
when you are there?— Why, what an injured man 
should do ; make her sensible of — Make her 
sensible of a pudding ! don't you see she's a jade ? 
She'll raise the house about your ears, arm the 
whole family, set the great dog at you. — Were 
there legions of devils to repulse me, in such a 
cause I could disperse them all.— Why then you 
have no occasion for help, sir, you may leave me 
at home to lay the cloth. — No ; thou art my ancient 
friend, my fellow traveller, and to reward thy 
faithful services this night thou shalt partake my 
danger and my glory. — Sir, I have got glory enough 
under you already, to content any reasonable 
servant for his life. — Thy modesty makes me will- 
ing to double my bounty ; this night may bring 
eternal honour to thee and thy family. — Eternal 
honour, sir, is too much in conscience for a serving- 
man ; besides, ambition has been many a great 
soul's undoing. — I doubt thou art afraid, my Lopez ; 
thou shalt be armed with back, with breast, and 
head-piece. — They will encumber me in my re- 
treat. — Retreat, my hero ! thou never shalt retreat. — 
Then by my troth I'll never go, sir. — But here he 
comes. 

Enter Don Lorenzo. 

Don Lor. Will it never be night ! sure 'tis the 
longest day the sun e'er travelled. 

Lop. Would 'twere as long as those in Green- 
land, sir, that you might spin out your life t'other 
half year. 1 don't like these nightly projects ; a 
man can't see what he does. We shall have some 
scurvy mistake or other happen; a brace of bullets 
blunder through your head in the dark perhaps, 
and spoil all your intrigue. 



Don Lor. Away, you trembling wretch, away ! 

Lop. Nay, sir, what I say is purely for your 
safety ; for as to myself — uds-death, I no more 
value the losing a quart of blood than I do drink- 
ing a quart of wine. Besides, my veins are too 
full, my physician advised me but yesterday to let 
go twenty ounces for my health. So you see, sir, 
there's nothing of that in the case. 

Don Lor. Then let me hear no other objections; 
for till I see Leonora I must lie upon the rack. I 
cannot bear her resentment, and will pacify her 
this night, or not live to see to-morrow. 

Lop. Well, sir, since you are so determined, I 
shan't be impertinent with any farther advice ; but 
I think you have laid your design to — [Coughs'] (I 
have got such a cold to-day !) to get in privately, 
have you not ? 

Don Lor. Yes ; and have taken care to be in- 
troduced as far as her chamber- door with all 
secrecy. 

Lop. [Coughing.'] This unlucky cough ! I had 
rather have had a fever at another time. Sir, I 
should be sorry to do you more harm than good 
upon this occasion : if this cough should come 
upon me in the midst of the action [coughs'] and 
give the alarm to the family, I should not forgive 
myself as long as I lived. 

Don Lor. I have greater ventures than that to 
take my chance for, and can't dispense with your 
attendance, sir. 

Lop. This 'tis to be a good servant, and make 
one's self necessary ! 

Enter Toledo. 

Tol. Sir, — I am glad I have found you. I am 
a man of honour, you know, and do always profess 
losing my life upon a handsome occasion. Sir, I 
come to offer you my service. I am informed from 
unquestionable hands that Don Carlos is enraged 
against you to a dangerous degree ; and that old 
Alvarez has given positive directions to break the 
legs and arms of your servant Lopez. 

Lop. Look you there now, I thought what 
'twould come to ! What do they meddle with me 
for ? what have I to do in my master's amours ? 
The old Don's got out of his senses, I think; have 
I married his daughter ? 

Don Lor. Fear nothing, we'll take care o' thee.— 
Sir, I thank you for the favour of your intelligence, 
'tis nothing however but what I expected, and am 
provided for. 



SCENE I. 



THE MISTAKE. 



455 



Tol. Sir, I would advise you to provide yourself 
with good friends, I desire the honour to keep 
your back hand myself. 

- Lop. 'Tis very kind indeed. Pray, sir, have 
you ne'er a servant with you could hold a racket 
for me too ? 

Tol. I have two friends fit to head two armies ; 
and yet — a word in your ear, they shan't cost you 
above a ducat a piece. 

Lop. Take 'em by all means, sir, you were never 
offered a better pennyworth in your life. 

Tol. Ah, sir ! — little Diego — you have heard of 
him ; he'd have been worth a legion upon this 
occasion. You know, I suppose, how they have 
served him. — They have hanged him, but he made 
a noble execution ; they clapped the rack and the 
priest to him at once, but could neither get a word 
of confession nor a groan of repentance ; he died 
mighty well truly. 

Don Lor. Such a man is indeed much to be re- 
gretted : as for the rest of your escort, captain, I 
thank you for 'em, but shall not use 'em. 

Tol. I'm sorry for't, sir, because I think you go 
in very great danger ; I'm much afraid your rival 
won't give you fair play. 

Lop. If he does I'll be hanged ! he's a damned 
passionate fellow, and cares not what mischief he 
does. 

Don Lor. I shall give him a very good oppor- 
tunity ; for I'll have no other guards about me but 
you, sir. So come along. 

Lop. Why, sir, this is the sin of presumption ; 
setting heaven at defiance, making jack-pudding of 
a blunderbuss. 

Don Lor. No more, but follow. — Hold ! turn this 
way ; I see Camillo there. I would avoid him, 
till I see what part he takes in this odd affair of 
his sister's. For I would not have the quarrel 
fixed with him, if it be possible to avoid it. [Exit. 

Lop. Sir ! — Captain Toledo ! one word if you 
please, sir. I'm mighty sorry to see my master 
won't accept of your friendly offer. Look ye, I'm 
not very rich ; but as far as the expense of a dollar 
went, if you'd be so kind to take a little care of 
me, it should be at your service. 

Tol. Let me see ; — a dollar you say ? but sup- 
pose I'm wounded ? 

Lop. Why you shall be put to no extraordinary 
charge upon that : I have been prentice to a barber, 
and will be your surgeon myself. 

Tol. 'Tis too cheap in conscience ; but my land- 
estate is so ill paid this war time — 

Lop. That a little industry may be commend- 
able ; so say no more, that matter's fixed. [Exeunt. 
Enter Camillo. 

Cam. How miserable a perplexity have I brought 
myself into ! Yet why do I complain ? since, 
With all the dreadful torture I endure, 
I can't repent of one wild step I've made. 
O love ! what tempests canst thou raise, what 
Canst thou assuage ! [storms 

To all thy cruelties I am resign'd. Long years 
Through seas of torment I'm content to roll, 
So thou wilt guide me to the happy port 
Of my Lorenzo s arms, 
And bless me there with one calm day at last. 

Enter Isabella. 
What news, dear Isabella ? Methinks there's 
something cheerful in your looks may give a trem- 



bling lover hopes. If you have comfort for me, 
speak, for I indeed have need of it. 

Isab. Were your wants yet still greater than they 
are, I bring a plentiful supply. 

Cam. O Heavens ! is't possible ! 

Isab. New mysteries are out, and if you can find 
charms to wean Lorenzo from your sister, no other 
obstacle is in your way to all you wish. 

Cam. Kind messenger from Heaven, speak on. 

Isab. Know then, that you are daughter to 
Alvarez. 

Cam. How ! daughter to Alvarez ! 

Isab. You are : the truth this moment's come 
to light ; and till this moment he, although your 
father, was a stranger to it ; nay, did not even 
know you were a woman. In short, the great 
estate, which has occasioned these uncommon 
accidents, was left but on condition of a son ; great 
hopes of one there was, when you destroyed 'em, 
and to your parents came a most unwelcome guest. 
To repair the disappointment, you were exchanged 
for that young Camillo, who few months after died. 
Your father then was absent, but your mother 
quick in contrivance, bold in execution, during that 
infant's sickness, had resolved his death should not 
deprive her family of those advantages his life had 
given it ; so ordered things with such dexterity, 
that once again there passed a change between you. 
Of this (for reasons yet unknown to me) she made 
a secret to her husband, and took such wise pre- 
cautions, that till this hour 'twas so to all the 
world, except the person from whom I now have 
heard it. 

Cam. This news indeed affords a view of no 
unhappy termination ; yet there are difficulties still 
may be of fatal hindrance. 

Isab. None, except that one I just now named 
to you ; for to remove the rest, know I have already 
unfolded all both to Alvarez and Don Felix. 

Cam. And how have they received it ? 

Isab. To your wishes both. As for Lorenzo, he 
is yet a stranger to all has passed, and the two old 
fathers desire he may some moments longer con- 
tinue so. They have agreed to be a little merry 
with the heats he is in, and engage you in a family- 
quarrel with him. 

Cam. I doubt, Isabella, I shall act that part but 
faintly. 

Isab. No matter, you'll make amends for it in 
the scene of reconciliation. 

Cam. Pray Heaven it be my lot to act it with 
him. 

Isab. Here comes Don Felix to wish you joy. 

Enter Don FfiLrx. 

Don Fel. Come near, my daughter, and with 
extended arms of great affection let me receive thee. 
— [Kisses her.} Thou art a dainty wench, goodfaith 
thou art, and 'tis a mettled action thou hast done ; 
if Lorenzo don't like thee the better for't, cods my 
life, he's a pitiful fellow, and I shan't believe the 
bonny old man had the getting of him. 

Cam. I'm so encouraged by your forgiveness, 
sir, methinks I have some flattering hopes of 
his. 

Don Fel. Of his ! egad and he had best ; I 
believe he'll meet with his match if he don't. What 
dost think of trying his courage a little, by way of 
a joke or so ? 

Isab. I was just telling her your design, sir. 



450 



THE MISTAKE. 



ACT V. 



Don Fel. Why I'm in a mighty witty way upon 
this whimsical occasion ; but I see him coming. 
You must not appear yet ; go your way in to the 
rest of the people there, and I'll inform him what 
a squabble he has worked himself into here. 

[Exeunt Camillo and Isabella. 

Re-enter Don Lorenzo and Lopez. 

Lop. Pray, sir, don't be so obstinate now, don't 
affront Heaven at this rate. I had a vision last 
night about this business on purpose to forewarn 
you ; I dreamt of goose-eggs, a blunt knife, and 
the snuff of a candle ; I'm sure there's mischief 
towards. 

Don Lor. You cowardly rascal, hold your 
tongue. 

Don Fel. Lorenzo, come hither, my boy, I was 
just going to send for thee. The honour of our 
ancient family lies in thy hands ; there is a combat 
preparing, thou must fight, my son. 

Lop. Look you there now, did not I tell you ? 
Oh, dreams are wondrous things ! I never knew 
that snuff of a candle fail yet. 

Don Lor. Sir, I do not doubt but Carlos seeks 
my life, I hope he'll do it fairly. 

Lop. Fairly, do you hear, fairly ! give me leave 
to tell you, sir, folks are not fit to be trusted with 
lives that don't know how to look better after 'em. 
— Sir, you gave it him, I hope you'll make him take 
a little more care on't. 

Don Fel. My care shall be to make him do as a 
man of honour ought to do. 

Lop. What, will you let him fight then ? let 
your own flesh and blood fight ? 

Don Fel. In a good cause, as this is. 

Lop. O rnonstrum, horrendum ! Now I have 
that humanity about me, that if a man but talks to 
me of fighting, I shiver at the name on't. 

Don Lor. What you do on this occasion, sir, is 
worthy of you : and had I been wanting to you, in 
my due regards before, this noble action would 
have stamped that impression, which a grateful son 
ought to have for so generous a father. 

Lop. [Aside.] Very generous truly ! gives him 
leave to be run through the guts, for his posterity 
to brag on a hundred years hence. 

Don Lor. I think, sir, as things now stand, it 
won't be right for me to wait for Carlos's call ; I'll 
if you please prevent him. 

Lop. Ay, pray sir, do prevent him by all means ; 
'tis better made up, as you say, a thousand times. 

Don Fel. Hold your tongue, you impertinent 
jack-a-napes ! I will have him fight, and fight like 
a fury too ; if he don't he'll be worsted, I can tell 
him that — For know, son, your antagonist is not 
the person you name, it is an enemy of twice his 
force. 

Lop. O dear ! O dear ! O dear ! and will nobody 
keep 'em asunder ? 

Don Lor. Nobody shall keep us asunder, if once 
I know the man I have to deal with. 

Don Fel. Thy man then is — Camillo. 

Don Lor. Camillo ! 

Don Fel. 'Tis he ; he'll suffer nobody to decide 
this quarrel but himself. 

Lop. Then there are no seconds, sir ? 

Don Fel. None. 

Lop. He's a brave man. 

Don Fel. No, he says nobody's blood shall be 



spilled on this occasion, but theirs who have a title 
to it. 

Lop. I believe he'll scarce have a lawsuit upon 
the claim. 

Don Fel. In short, he accuses thee of a shameful 
falsehood, in pretending his sister Leonora was thy 
wife ; and has upon it prevailed with his father, as 
thou hast done with thine, to let the debate be 
ended by the sword 'twixt him and thee. 

Lop. And pray, sir, with submission, one short 
question if you please ; what may the gentle 
Leonora say of this business ? 

Don Fel. She approves of the combat, and 
marries Carlos. 

Lop. Why, God a-mercy ! 

Don Lor. Is it possible ? sure she's a devil, not 
a woman. 

Lop. Ecod, sir, a devil and a woman both, I 
think. 

Don Fel. Well, thou sha't have satisfaction of 
some of 'em. — Here they all come. 

Enter Don Alvarez, Don Carlos, Leonora, .Tacinta, 
and Sancho. 

Don Alv. Well, Don Felix, have you prepared 
your son ? for mine, he's ready to engage. 

Don Lor. And. so is his. My wrongs prepare 
me for a thousand combats. My hand has hitherto 
been held by the regard I've had to everything of 
kin to Leonora ; but since the monstrous part she 
acts has driven her from my heart, I call for repa- 
ration from her family. 

Don Alv. You'll have it, sir ; Camillo will attend 
you instantly. 

Lop. O lack ! O lack ! will nobody do a little 
something to prevent bloodshed ? — [To Leonora.] 
Why, madam, have you no pity, no bowels ? Stand 
and see one of your husbands stotered before your 
face ? 'Tis an arrant shame. 

Leo. If widowhood be my fate, I must bear it 
as I can. 

Lop., Why, did you ever hear the like ? 

Don Lor. Talk to her no more. Her monstrous 
impudence is no otherwise to be replied to than by 
a dagger in her brother's heart. 

Leo. Yonder he's coming to receive it. But 
have a care, brave sir, he does not place it in 
another's. 

Don Lor. It is not in his power. He has a rotten 
cause upon his sword, I'm sorry he is engaged in't; 
but since he is he must take his fate. — [To Don 
Carlos.] For you, my bravo, expect me in your 
turn. / 

Don Car. You'll find Camillo, sir, will set your 
hand out. 

Don Lor. A beardless boy I You might have 
matched me better, sir ; but prudence is a virtue. 

Don Fel. Nay, son, I would not have thee 
despise thy adversary neither ; thou'lt find Camillo 
will put thee hardly to't. 

Don Lor. I wish we were come to the trial. Why 
does he not appear ? 

Jac. Now do I hate to hear people brag thus. 
Sir, with my lady's leave, I'll hold a ducat he 
disarms you. {They laugh. 

Don Lor. Why, what ! — I think I'm sported 
with. Take heed, I warn you all ; I am not to be 
trifled with. 



SCENE I. 



THE MISTAKE. 



457 



Re-enter Camillo and Isabella. 

Leo. You shan't, sir ; here's one will be in 
earnest with you. 

Don Lor. He's welcome : though I had rather 
have drawn my sword against another. — I'm sorry, 
Camillo, we should meet on such bad terms as 
these ; yet more sorry your sister should be the 
wicked cause on't : but since nothing will serve her 
but the blood either of a husband or brother, she 
shall be glutted with't. Draw ! 

Lop. Ah Lard ! ah Lard ! ah Lard ! 

Don Lor. And yet, before I take this instrument 
of death into my fatal hand, hear me, Camillo ; hear, 
Alvarez ; all ! 

I imprecate the utmost powers of Heaven 
To shower upon my head the deadliest of its wrath ; 
I ask that all hell's torments may unite 
To round my soul with one eternal anguish, 
If wicked Leonora ben't my wife. 

All. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 

Leo. Why then, may all those curses pass him by, 
And wrap me in their everlasting pains, 
If ever once I had a fleeting thought 
Of making him my husband. 

Lop. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 

Leo. Nay more ; to strike him dumb at once, 
and show what men with honest looks can practise, 
know he's married to another. 

Don Alv. <§• Don Fel. How 1 

Leo. The truth of this is known to some here. 

Jac. Nay, 'tis certainly so. 

Isab. 'Tis to a friend of mine. 

Don Car. I know the person. 

Don Lor. 'Tis false ! and thou art a villain for 
thy testimony. 

Cam. Then let me speak ; what they aver is 
true, and I myself was, in disguise, a witness of its 
doing. 

Don Lor. Death and confusion ! he a villain too ! 
—Have at thy heart. LHe draws. 

Lop. Ah !— I can't bear the sight on't. 

Cam. Put up that furious thing, there's no 
business for't. 

Don Lor. There's business for a dagger, strip- 
ling; 'tis that should be thy recompense. 

Cam. Why then to show thee naked to the 
world, and close thy mouth for ever — I am myself 
thy wife — 

Don Lor. What does the dog mean ? 

Cam. To fall upon the earth and sue for mercy. 
{Kneels and lets her periwig fall off. 

Don Lor. A woman ! — 

Lop. Ecod, and a pretty one too ; you wags you ! 

Don Lor. I'm all amazement ! — Rise, Camillo, 
(if I am still to call you by that name,) and let me 
hear the wonders you have for me. 



Isab. That part her modesty will ask from 
me. 
I'm to inform you then, that this disguise 
Hides other mysteries besides a woman ; 
A large and fair estate was cover'd by't, 
Which with the lady now will be resign' d you. 
'Tis true, in justice it was yours before ; 
But 'tis the god of love has done you right. 
To him you owe this strange discovery ; 
Through him you are to know the true Camillo's 
dead, and that this fair adventurer is daughter to 
Alvarez. 

Don Lor. Incredible ! But go on ; let me hear 
more. 

Don Fel. She'll tell thee the rest herself the 
next dark night she meets thee in the garden. 

Don Lor. Ha ! — Was it Camillo then, that I — 

Isab. It was Camillo who there made you happy : 
and who has virtue, beauty, wit, and love — enough 
to make you so while life shall last you. 

Don Lor. The proof she gives me of her love 
deserves a large acknowledgment indeed. Forgive 
me, therefore, Leonora, if what I owe this goodness 
and these charms, I with my utmost care, my life, 
my soul, endeavour to repay. 

Cam. Is it then possible you can forgive me ? 

Don Lor. Indeed I can ; few crimes have such 
a claim 
To mercy. But join with me then, dear Camillo, 
(For still I know you by no other name,) 
Join with me to obtain your father's pardon.. 
Yours, Leonora, too, I must implore ; 
And yours, my friend, for now we may be such. 

[To Carlos, 
Of all I ask forgiveness ; and since there is 
So fair a cause of all my wild mistakes, 
I hope I by her interest shall obtain it. 

Don Alv. You have a claim to mine, Lorenzo, 
I wish I had so strong a one to yours ; but if by 
future services, (though I lay down my life amongst 
'em) I may blot out of your remembrance a fault 
(I cannot name), I then shall leave the world in 
peace. 

Don Lor. In peace then, sir, enjoy it ; for from 
this very hour, whate'er is past with me is gone 
for ever. Your daughter is too fair a mediatrix to 
be refused his pardon, to whom she owes the 
charms she pleads with for it. 

From this good day, then let all discord cease ; 
Let those to come be harmony and peace ; 
Henceforth let all our different interests join, 
Let fathers, lovers, friends, let all combine, 
To make eaeh other's days as bless'd as she will 
mine. {Exeunt omnes. 



458 



THE MISTAKE. 



EPILOGUE, 

(WRITTEN BY MR. MOTTEUX) SPOKEN BY ISABELLA. 



I'm thinking, now good husbands are so few, 
To get one like my friend, what I must do. 
Camillo ventured hard ; yet at the worst, 
She stole love's honeymoon, and tried her lover 

first. 
Many poor damsels, if they dared to tell, 
Have done as much, but have not 'scaped so well. 
'Tis well the scene's in Spain ; thus in the dark, 
I should be loath to trust a London spark. 
Some accident might, for a private reason, 
Silence a female, all this acting season. 
Hard fate of woman ! Any one would vex, 
To think what odds you men have of our sex. 
Restraint and customs share our inclination, 
You men can try, and run o'er half the nation. 
We dare not, even to avoid reproach, 
When you're at White's, peep out of hackney- 
coach ; 
Nor with a friend at night, our fame regarding, 
With glass drawn up, drive about Co vent-garden. 



If poor town-ladies steal in here, you rail. 
Though like chaste nuns, their modest looks they 
With this decorum they can hardly gain [veil ; 
To be thought virtuous, even in Drury-lane, 
Though this you'll not allow, yet sure you may 
A plot to snap you, in an honest way. 
In love-affairs, one scarce would spare a brother : 
All cheat ; and married folks may keep a pother, 
But look as if they cheated one another. 
You may pretend, our sex dissembles most, 
But of your truth none have much cause to boast : 
You promise bravely; but for all your storming, 
We find you're not so valiant at performing. 
Then sure Camillo's conduct you'll approve : 
Would you not do as much for one you love ? 
Wedlock's but a blind bargain at the best, 
You venture more, sometimes, to be not half so 

blest. 
All, soon or late, that dangerous venture make, 
And some of you may make a worse mistake. 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE 

a Jtae. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Monsieur Barnard, a ci-devant Laioyer turned 

Country-Gentleman. 
Monsieur Griffard, Brother to Monsieur 

Barnard. 
Erastus, in love with Mariamne. 
Dorant, Son to Monsieur Barnard. 
Monsieur le Marquis. 
Baron de Messy. 

Janno, Cousin to Monsieur Barnard. 
Colin, Servant to Monsieur Barnard. 
Charly, a little Boy, Cousin to Mariamne. 



Servant to Erastus. 

Monsieur la Garantiere, \ 

Monsieur la Rose, \Friends to Dorant. 

Monsieur Trofignac, J 

A Soldier, Cook, other Servants, &c. 

Madame Barnard, Wife to Monsieur Barnard. 
Mariamne, Daughter to Monsieur Barnard ly 

a former marriage. 
Mawkin, Sister to Janno. 
Lisetta, Maid to Mariamne. 



SCENE, — Normandy in France. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 



■A Room in Monsieur Barnard's 
Country -House. 



Enter Erastus and his Servant, Lisetta following. 

Lis. Once more I tell ye, sir, if you have any 
consideration in the world for her, you must begone 
this minute. 

Erast. My dear Lisetta, let me but speak to her, 
let me but see her only. 

Lis. You may do what you will ; but not here, 
whilst you are in our house. I do believe she's as 
impatient to see you as you can be to see her ; 
but— 

Erast. But why won't you give us that satisfac- 
tion then ? 

Lis. Because I know the consequence ; for when 
you once get together, the devil himself is not able 
to part ye ; you will stay so long till you are sur- 
prised, and what will become of us then ? 

Serv. Why, then we shall be thrown out at the 
window, I suppose. 

Lis. No, but I shall be turned out of doors. 

Erast. How unfortunate am I ! these doors are 
open to all the world, and only shut to me. 

Lis. Because you come for a wife, and at our 
house we do not care for people that come for 
wives. 

Serv. What would you have us come for, child ? 

Lis. Anything but wives ; because they cannot 
be put off without portions. 

Serv. Portions ! No, no, never talk of portions ; 
my master nor I neither don't want portions ; and 



if he'd follow my advice, a regiment of fathers 
should not guard her. 

Lis. What say you ? 

Serv. Why, if you'll contrive that my master 
may run away with your mistress, I don't much 
care, faith, if I run away with you. 

Lis. Don't you so, rogue's face ! But I hope 
to be better provided for. 

Erast. Hold your tongues. — But where is Ma- 
riamne's brother ? He is my bosom friend, and 
would be willing to serve me. 

Lis. I told you before that he has been abroad 
a-hunting, and we han't seen him these three days; 
he seldom lies at home, to avoid his father's ill 
humour ; so that it is not your mistress only that 
our old covetous cuff teases :— there's nobody in 
the family but feels the effects of his ill humour : 
■ — by his good will he would not suffer a creature 
to come within his doors, or eat at his table ; — 'and 
if there be but a rabbit extraordinary for dinner, he 
thinks himself ruined for ever. 

Erast. Then I find you pass your time comfort- 
ably in this family. 

Lis. Not so bad as you imagine neither, perhaps; 
for, thank Heaven, we have a mistress that's as 
bountiful as he is stingy, one that will let him say 
what he will, and yet does what she will. But 
hark, here's somebody coming ; it is certainly he. 

Erast. Can't you hide us somewhere ? 

Lis. Here, here, get you in here as fast as you 
can. 

Serv. Thrust me in too. [Puts them into the closet. 



460 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



ACT I. 



Enter Mariamne. 

Lis. Oh, is it you ? 

Mar. So, Lisetta, where have you been ? I've 
been looking for ye all over the house. Who are 
those people in the garden with my mother-in-law ? 
I believe my father won't be very well pleased to 
see 'em there. 

Lis. And here's somebody else not far off, that 
I believe your father won't be very well pleased 
with neither. — Come, sir, sir ! [Calls. 

Re-enter Erastus and Servant. 

Mar. O heavens ! 

Lis. Come, lovers, I can allow you but a short 
bout on't this time ; you must do your work with 
a jirk — one whisper, two sighs, and a kiss ; make 
haste, I say, and I'll stand sentry for ye in the 
meantime. [Exit. 

Mar. Do you know what you expose me to, 
Erastus ? What do you mean ? 

Erast. To die, madam, since you receive me with 
so little pleasure. 

Mar. Consider what would become of me, if my 
father should see you here. 

Erast. What would you have me do ? 

Mar. Expect with patience some happy turn of 
affairs. My mother-in-law is kind and indulgent 
to a miracle ; and her favour, if well managed, may 
turn to our advantage ; and could I prevail upon 
myself to declare my passion to her, I don't doubt 
but she'd join in our interest. 

Erast. Well, since we've nothing to fear from 
her, and your brother, you know, is my intimate 
friend, you may therefore conceal me somewhere 
about the house for a few days. I'll creep into 
any hole. 

Serv. Ay, but who must have the care of bring- 
ing us victuals ? [Aside. 

Erast. Thrust us into the cellar, or up into the 
garret : I don't care where it is, so that it be but 
under the same roof with you. 

Serv. But I don't say so, for that jade Lisetta 
will have the feeding of us, and I know what kind 
of diet she keeps. — I believe we shan't be like the 
fox in the fable, our bellies won't be so full but 
we shall be able to creep out at the same hole we 
got in at. [Aside. 

Erast. Must I then begone ? must I return to 
Paris ? 

Re-enter Lisetta. 

Lis. Yes, that you must, and immediately too, 
for here's my master coming in upon ye. 

Erast. What shall I do ? 

Lis. Begone this minute. 

Mar. Stay in the village till you hear from me, 
none of our family know that you are in it. 

Erast. Shall I see you sometimes ? 

Mar. I han't time to answer you now. 

Lis. Make haste, I say ; are you bewitched ? 

Erast. Will you write to me ? 

Mar. I will if I can. 

Lis. Begone, I say ; is the devil in you ? — 
[ Thrusts Erastus and Servant out.] Come this 
way, your father's just stepping in upon us. 

[Exeunt. 
Enter Monsieur Barnard beating Colin. 

Mon. Bam. Rogue ! rascal ! did not I com- 
mand you? Did not I give you my orders, sirrah? 

Col. Why, you gave me orders to let nobody in ; 
and madam, her gives me orders to let everybody 



in — why, the devil himself can't please you boath, 
I think. 

Mon. Barn. But, sirrah, you must obey my or- 
ders, not hers. 

Col. Why, the gentlefolks asked for her, they 
did not ask for you — what do you make such a 
noise about ? 

Mon. Barn. For that reason, sirrah, you should 
not have let 'em in. 

Col. Hold, sir, I'd rather see you angry than 
her, that's true ; for when you're angry you have 
only the devil in ye, but when madam's in a passion 
she has the devil and his dam both in her belly. 

Mon. Barn. You must mind what I say to you, 
sirrah, and obey my orders. 

Col. Ay, ay, measter— but let's not quarrel with 
one another — you're always in such a plaguy 
humour. 

Mon. Barn. What are these people that are just 
come ? 

Col. Nay, that know not I — but as fine volk 
they are as ever eye beheld, Heaven bless 'em ! 

Mon. Barn. Did you hear their names ? 

Col. Noa, noa, but in a coach they keam all 
besmeared with gould, with six breave horses, the 
like on 'em ne'er did I set eyes on. — 'Twould do a 
man's heart good to look on sike fine beast, measter. 

Mon. Barn. How many persons are there ? 

Col. Vour — two as fine men as ever woman 
bore, and two as dainty deames as a man would 
desire to lay his lips to. 

Mon. Barn. And all this crew sets up at my 
house. 

Col. Noa, noa, measter, the coachman is gone 
into the village to set up his coach at some inn, 
for I told him our coach-house was vull of vaggots, 
but he'll bring back the six horses, for I told him 
we had a rare good steable. 

Mon. Barn. Did you so, rascal ? did you so ? 

[Beats him. 

Col. Doant, doant, sir, it would do you good to 
see sike cattle, i'faith they look as if they had ne'er 
kept Lent. 

Mon. Barn. Then they shall learn religion at my 
house. — Sirrah, do you take care they sup without 
oats to-night. — What will become of me ! Since 
I have bought this damned country-house, I spend 
more in a summer than would maintain me seven 
year. 

Col. Why, if you do spend money, han't you 
good things for it ? Come they not to see you the 
whole country raund ? Mind how you're beloved, 
measter. 

Mon. Barn. Pox take such love! — 

Re-enter Lisetta. 

How now,what do you want ? 

Lis. Sir, there's some company in the garden 
with my mistress, who desire to see you. 

Mon. Barn. The devil take 'em, what business 
have they here? But who are they ? 

Lis. Why, sir, there's the fat abbot that always 
sits so long at dinner, and drinks his two bottles 
by way of whet. 

Mon. Barn. I wish his church was in his belly, 
that his guts might be half full before he came. — 
And who else ? 

Lis. Then there's the young marquis that won 
all my lady's money at cards. 

Mon. Barn. Pox take him too ! 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



461 



Lis. Then there's the merry lady that's always 
in a good humour. 

Mon. Barn. Very well. 

Lis. Then there's she that threw down all my 
lady's china t'other day, and laughed at it for a jest. 

Mon. Barn. Which I paid above fifty pounds 
for in earnest. — Very well, and pray how did 
madam receive all this fine company? — With a 
hearty welcome, and a curtsy with her bum down 
to the ground, ha ? 

Lis. No indeed, sir, she was very angry with 'em. 

Mon. Barn. How, angry with 'em, say you ? 

Lis. Yes indeed, sir, for she expected they 
would have staid here a fortnight, but it seems 
things happen so unluckily that they can't stay 
here above ten days. [Exit. 

Mon. Barn. Ten days ! how ! what ! four 
persons with a coach and six, and a kennel of 
hungry hounds in liveries, to live upon me ten days ! 

Enter Soldier. 
So, what do you want? 

Sol. Sir, I come from your nephew, captain 
Hungry. 

Mon. Barn. Well, what does he want ? 
Sol. He gives his service to you, sir, and sends 
you word that he'll come and dine with you to- 
morrow. 

Mon. Barn. Dine with me ! no, no, friend, tell 
him I don't dine at all to-morrow, it is my fast- 
day, my wife died on't. 

Sol. And he has sent you here a pheasant and a 
couple of partridges. 

Mon. Barn. How's that, a pheasant and part- 
ridges, say you ! — Let's see — very fine birds, 
truly. — Let me consider — to-morrow is not my 
fast-day, I mistook ; tell my nephew he shall be 
welcome. — [To Colin.] And d'ye hear? do you 
take these fowl and hang them up in a cool place 
— and take this soldier in, and make him drink — 
make him drink, d'ye see — a cup, — ay, a cup of 
small beer — d'ye hear ? 

Col. Yes, sir. — Come along ; our small beer is 

reare good. [Exit. 

Sol. But, sir, he bade me tell you that he'll 

bring two or three of his brother officers along with 

bim. 

Mon. Barn. How's that ! officers with him — 
here, come back— take the fowls again; I don't 
dine to-morrow, and so tell him. — [Gives him the 
basket.'] Go, go! [Thrusting him out. 

Sol. Sir, sir, that won't hinder them from com- 
ing, for they retired a little distance off the camp, 
and because your house is near 'em, sir, they 
resolve to come. 

Mon. Barn. Go, begone, sirrah ! — [Thrusts him 
out.'] There's a rogue now, that sends me three 
lean carrion birds, and brings half-a-dozen varlets 
to eat them ! 

Enter Monsieur Griffard. 
Mon. Griff. Brother, what is the meaning of 
these doings ? If you don't order your affairs bet- 
ter, you'll have your fowls taken out of your very 
yard, and carried away before your face. 

Mon. Barn. Can I help it, brother ? But what's 
the matter now ? 

Mon. Griff. There's a parcel of fellows have 
been hunting about your grounds all this morning, 
broke down your hedges, and are now coming into 
your house. — Don't you hear them ? 



Mon. Barn. No, no, I don't hear them : who 
are they ? 

Mon. Griff. Three or four rake-helly officers, 
with your nephew at the head of 'em. 

Mon. Barn. O the rogue ! he might well send 
me fowls. — But is it not a vexatious thing, that I 
must stand still and see myself plundered at this 
rate, and have a carrion of a wife who thinks I 
ought to thank all these rogues that come to de- 
vour me ! But can't you advise me what's to be 
done in this case ? 

Mon. Griff. I wish I could, for it goes to my 
heart to see you thus treated by a crew of vermin, 
who think they do you a great deal of honour in 
ruining of you. 

Mon. Barn. Can there be no way found to re- 
dress this ? 

Mon. Griff. If I were you, I'd leave this house 
quite, and go to town. 

Mon. Barn. What, and leave my wife behind 
me ? ay that would be mending the matter 
indeed ! 

Mon. Griff. Why don't you sell it then ? 

M on. Barn. Because nobody will buy it ; it has 
got as bad a name as if the plague were in't ; it 
has been sold over and over, and every family that 
has lived in it has been ruined. 

Mon. Griff. Then send away all your beds and 
furniture, except what is absolutely necessary for 
your own family ; you'll save something by that, 
for then your guests can't stay with you all night, 
however. 

Mon. Barn. I've tried that already, and it sig- 
nified nothing : — for they all got drunk and lay in 
the barn, and next morning laughed it off for afrolic. 

Mon. Griff. Then there is but one remedy left 
that I can think off. 

Mon. Barn. What's that ? 

Mon. Griff. You must e'en do what's done 
when a town's on fire, blow up your house that the 
mischief may run no further. — But who is this 
gentleman ? 

Mon. Barn. I never saw him in my life before, 
but for all that, I'll hold fifty pound he comes to 
dine with me. 

Enter the Marquis. 

Marq. My dear M. Barnard, I'm your most 
humble servant. 

Mon. Barn. I don't doubt it, sir. 

Marq. What is the meaning of this, M. Bar- 
nard ? You look as coldly upon me as if I were a 
stranger. 

Mon. Barn. Why truly, sir, I'm very apt to do 
so by persons I never saw in my life before. 

Marq. You must know, M . Barnard, I'm come 
on purpose to drink a bottle with you. 

Mon. Bam. That may be, sir ; but it happens 
that at this time I'm not at all dry. 

Marq. I left the ladies at cards waiting for sup- 
per ; for my part, I never play ; so I came to see 
my dear M. Barnard ; and I'll assure you, I under- 
took this journey only to have the honour of your 
acquaintance. 

Mon. Barn. You might have spared yourself 
that trouble, sir. 

Marq. Don't you know, M. Barnard, that this 
house of yours is a little paradise ? 

Mon. Barn. Then rot me, if it bq, sir ! 

Marq. For my part, I think a pretty retreat in 



462 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



the country is one of the greatest comforts in life ; 
I suppose you never want good company, M. 
Barnard ? 

Mon. Barn. No, sir, I never want company ; 
for you must know I love very much to be alone. 

Marq. Good wine you must keep above all things, 
without good wine and good cheer I would not give 
a fig for the country. 

Mon. Barn. Really, sir, my wine is the worst 
you ever drank in your life, and you'll find my 
cheer but very indifferent. 

Marq. No matter, no matter, M. Barnard : 
I've heard much of your hospitality, there's a 
plentiful table in your looks — and your wife is 
certainly one of the best women in the world. 

Mon. Barn. Rot me if she be, sir ! 

Re-enter Colin. 

Col. Sir, sir, yonder's the baron de Messy has 
lost his hawk in our garden ; he says it is perched 
upon one of the trees ; may we let him have'n 
again, sir? 

Mon. Barn. Go tell him, that — 

Col. Nay, you may tell him yourself, for here 
he comes. 

Enter Baron De Messy. 

Baron. Sir, I'm your most humble servant, and 
ask you a thousand pardons that I should live so 
long in your neighbourhood, and come upon such an 
occasion as this to pay you my first respects. 

Mon. Barn. It is very well, sir ; but I think 
people may be very good neighbours without visit- 
ing one another. 

Baron. Pray how do you like our country ? 

Mon. Barn. Not at all, I am quite tired on't. 

Marq. Is it not the baron ! it is certainly he. 

Baron. How ; my dear marquis ! let me em- 
brace you. 

Marq. My dear baron, let me kiss you. 

[They run and embrace. 

Baron. We have not seen one another since we 
were schoolfellows before. 

Marq. The happiest rencontre ! 

Mon. Griff. These gentlemen seem to be very 
well acquainted. 

Mon. Barn. Yes, but I know neither one nor 
t'other of them, 

Marq. Baron, let me present to you one of the 
best-natured men in the world — M. Barnard here, 
the flower of hospitality ! — I congratulate you upon 
having so good a neighbour. 

Mon. Barn. Sir ! 

Baron. It is an advantage I am proud of. 

Mon. Barn. Sir ! 

Marq. Come, gentlemen, you must be very in- 
timate ; let me have the honour of bringing you 
better acquainted. 

Mon. Bam. Sir ! 

Baron. Dear Marquis, I shall take it as a 
favour if you'll do me that honour. 

Barn. Sir ! 

Marq, With all my heart. — Come, baron, now 
you are here we can make up the most agreeable 
company in the world. — Faith you shall stay and 
pass a few days with us. 

Mon. Barn. Methinks now, this son of a whore 
does the honours of my house to a miracle. [Aside. 

Baron. I don't know what to say, but I should 
be very glad you'd excuse me. 

Marq. Faith, I can't. 



Baron. Dear marquis ! 
Marq. Egad, I won't. 

Baron. Well, since it must be so — but here 
comes the lady of the family. 

Enter Madame Barnard. 

Marq. Madam, let me present you to the flower 
of France. 

Baron. Madam, I shall think myself the happiest 
person in the world in your ladyship's acquaint- 
ance ; and the little estate I have in this country I 
esteem more than all the rest, because it lies so 
near your ladyship. 

Mad. Barn. Sir, your most humble servant. 

Marq. Madam, the baron de Messy is the best- 
humoured man in the world. I've prevailed with 
him to give us his company a few days. 

Mad. Barn. I'm sure you could not oblige M. 
Barnard or me more. 

Mon. Barn. That's a damned lie, I'm sure. 

[Aside. 

Baron. I'm sorry, madam, I can't accept of the 
honour — for it falls out so unluckily, that I've 
some ladies at my house that I can't possibly leave. 

Marq. No matter, no matter, baron ; you have 
ladies at your house, we have ladies at our house — 
let's join companies. — Come, let's send for them 
immediately ; the more the merrier. 

Mon. Barn. An admirable expedient, truly ! 

Baron. Well, since it must be so, I'll go for 
them myself. 

Marq. Make haste, dear baron, for we shall be 
impatient for your return. 

Baron. Madam, your most humble servant. — 
But I won't take my leave of you — I shall be back 
again immediately. — Monsieur Barnard, I'm your 
most humble servant ; since you will have it so, 
I'll return as soon as possible. 

[Exeunt Baron de Messy and Marquis. 

Mon. Bam. I have it so ! 'sbud, sir, you may 
stay as long as you please ; I'm in no haste for ye. 
Madam, you are the cause that I am not master of 
my own house. 

Mad. Barn. Will you never learn to be reason- 
able, husband ? 

Re-enter the Marquis. 

Marq. The baron is the best-humoured man in 
the world, only a little too ceremonious, that's all. 
— I love to be free and generous ; since I came to 
Paris I've reformed half the court. 

Mad. Barn. You are of the most agreeable 
humour in the world, marquis. 

Marq. Always merry. — But what have you done 
with the ladies ? 

Mad. Barn. I left them at cards. 

Marq. Well, I'll wait upon 'em. But, madam, 
let me desire you not to put yourself to any extra- 
ordinary expense upon our accounts. — You must 
consider we have more than one day to live 
together. 

Mad. Barn. You are pleased to be merry, mar- 
quis. 

Marq. Treat us without ceremony. Good wine 
and poultry you have of your own ; wild-fowl and 
fish are brought to your door : — you need not send 
abroad for anything but a piece of butcher's meat, 
or so Let us have no extraordinaries. [Exit. 

Mon. Barn. If I had the feeding of you, a 
thunderbolt should be your supper. 



SCENE I. 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



463 



Mad. Barn. Husband, will you never change 
your humour ? If you go on at this rate, it will be 
impossible to live with ye. 

Mon. Barn. Very true ; for in a little time I 
shall have nothing to live upon. 

Mad. Barn. Do you know what a ridiculous 
figure you make ? 

Mon. Barn. You'll make a great deal worse, 
when you han't money enough to pay for the wash- 
ing of your shifts. 

Mad. Barn. It seems you married me only to 
dishonour me ; how horrible this is ! 

Mon. Barn. I tell ye, youll ruin me. Do you 
know how much money you spend in a year ? 

Mad. Barn. Not I truly, I don't understand 
arithmetic. 

Mon. Barn. Arithmetic, O Lud ! O Lud! Is 
it so hard to comprehend, that he who receives but 
sixpence and spends a shilling, must be ruined in 
the end ? 

Mad. Barn. I never troubled my head with 
accounts, nor never will ; but if you did but know 
what ridiculous things the world says of ye — 



Mon. Barn. Rot the world !— 'Twill say worse 
of me when I am in a jail. 

Mad. Barn. A very Christian -like saying, truly ! 

Mon. Barn. Don't tell me of Christian !— Ads- 
bud, I'll turn Jew, and nobody shall eat at my table 
that is not circumcised. 

Re-enter Lisetta. 

Lis. Madam, there's the duchess of Twangdillo 
just fell down near our door, her coach was over- 
turned. 

Mad. Barn. I hope her grace has received no 
hurt? 

Lis. No, madam, but her coach is broke. 

Mon. Barn. Then there's a smith in town may 
mend it. 

Lis. They say 'twill require two or three days to 
fit it up again. 

Mad. Barn. I'm glad on't with all my heart, 
for then I shall enjoy the -pleasure of her grace's 
good company. — I'll wait upon her. 

Mon. Barn, Very fine doings this ! 

\_Exeunt severally. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I.— The same. 

Enter Monsieur Barnard. 

Mon. Barn. Heaven be now my comfort, for 
my house is hell : — [Starts.] Who's there, what 
do you want ? who are you ? 

Enter Servant with a portmanteau. 

Serv. Sir, here's your cousin Janno and cou- 
sin Mawkin come from Paris. 

Mon. Barn. What a plague do they want ? 

Enter Janno, leading in Mawkin. 

Jan. Come, sister, come along. — Oh, here's cou- 
sin Barnard. — Cousin Barnard, your servant. — 
Here's my sister Mawkin and 1 are come to see 
you. 

Mawk. Ay, cousin, here's brother Janno and I 
are come from Paris to see you. Pray how does 
cousin Mariamne do ? 

Jan. My sister and I waunt well at Paris ; so 
my father sent us here for two or three weeks to 
take a little country air. 

Mon. Barn. You could not come to a worse 
place ; for this is the worst air in the whole 
country. 

Mawk. Nay, I'm sure, my father says it is the 
best. 

Mon. Barn. Your father's a fool ; I tell ye, 
'tis the worst. 

Jan. Nay, cousin, I fancy you're mistaken 
now ; for I begin to find my stomach come to me 
already ; in a fortnight's time you shall see how I'll 
lay about me. 

Mon. Barn. I don't at all doubt it. 

Mawk. Father would have sent sister Flip and 
little brother Humphrey, but the calash would not 
holds us all, and so they don't come till to-morrow 
with mother. 

Jan. Come, sister, let's put up our things in 
our chamber ; and after you have washed my face, 



and put me on a clean neckcloth, we'll go in and 
see how our cousins do. 

Mawk. Ay, come along, we'll go and see cousin 
Mariamne. 

Jan. Cousin, we shan't give you much trouble, 
one bed will serve us ; for sister Mawkin and 1 
always lie together. 

Mawk. But, cousin ; mother prays you that 
you'd order a little cock-broth for brother Janno 
and I, to be got ready as soon as may be. 

Jan. Ay, a propos, cousin Barnard, that's true ; 
my mother desires that we may have some cock- 
broth to drink two or three times a-day between 
meals, for my sister and I are sick folks. 

Mawk. And some young chickens too, the 
doctor said, would bring us to our stomachs very 
soon. 

Jan. You fib now, sister, it waunt young chick- 
ens, so it waunt, it was plump partridges sure, the 
doctor said so. 

Mawk. Ay, so it was, brother. — Come, let's go 
in, and see our cousins. 

Jan. Ay, come along, sister. — Cousin Barnard, 
don't forget the cock-broth. 

[Exeunt Janno and Mawkin, Servant following. 

Mon. Bam. What the devil does all this mean ! 
Mother, and sister Flip, and little brother Hum- 
phrey, and chickens, and partridges, and cock- 
broth, and fire from hell to dress 'em all. 
Enter Colin. 

Col. O measter ! O measter ! — you'll not chide 
to-day, as you are usen to do ; no, marry will you 
not ; see now what it is to be wiser than one's 
measter ! 

Mon. Bam. What would this fool have ? 

Col. Why, thanks, and money to-boot, an folk 
were grateful. 

Mon. Barn. What's the matter ? 

Col. Why, the matter is, if you have good store 
of company in your house, you have good store of 
meat to put in their bellies. 



464 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



ACT II. 



Mon. Barn. How so ? how so ? 

Col. Why, a large and steately stag, with a pair 
of horns on his head, Heaven bless you, your wor- 
ship might be seen to wear 'em, comes towards our 
geat a puffing and blawing like a cow in hard 
labour. — Now, says I to myself, says I, if my 
measter refuse to let this fine youth come in, why, 
then, he's a fool d'ye see. — So I opens him the 
geat, pulls off my hat with both my honds, and 
said, You're welcome, kind sir, to our house. 

Mon. Barn. Well, well ! 

Col. Well, well, ay, and so it is well, as you shall 
straightway find. — So in he trots, and makes 
directly towards our barn, and goes bounce, bounce, 
against the door, as boldly as if he had been meas- 
ter on't :— he turns'en about and thawcks'n down 
in the stra, as who would say, Here will I lay me 
till to-morrow morning. — But he had no fool to 
deal with : for to the kitchen goes I, and takes me 
down a musket, and, with a breace of balls, I hits'n 
such a slap in the feace, that he ne'er spoke a word 
more to me. — Have I done well or no, measter ? 

Mon. Barn. Yes, you have done very well for 
once. 

Col. But this was not all, for a parcel of dogs came 
yelping after their companion, as I suppose ; so I 
goes to the back -yard door, and, as many as came 
by, shu ! says I, and drove 'em into the gearden ; 
so there they are as safe as in a pawnd — ha ! ha ! — 
But I can't but think what a power of pasties we 
shall have at our house, ha ! ha ! [Exit. 

Mon. Barn. I see Providence takes some care 
of me : this could never have happened in a better 
time. 

Enter Cook. 

Cook. Sir, sir, in the name of wonder, what do 
you mean ? is it by your orders that all those dogs 
were let into the garden ? 

Mon. Barn. How ! 

Cook. I believe there's forty or fifty dogs tearing 
up the lettuce and cabbage by the root ; I believe 
before they have done, they'll rout up the whole 
garden. 

Mon. Barn. This is that rogue's doings. 

Cook. This was not all, sir, for three or four of 
'em came into the kitchen, and tore half the meat 
off the spit that was for your worship's supper. 

Mon. Barn. The very dogs plague me ! 

Cook. And then there's a crew of hungry foot- 
men who devoured what the dogs left, so that 
there's not a bit left for your worship's supper ; 
not a scrap, not one morsel, sir. [Exit. 

Mon. Barn. Sure I shall hit on some way to 
get rid of this crew. 

Re-enter Colin. 

Col. Sir, sir, here's the devil to do without yon- 
der ! A parcel of fellows swear they'll have our 
venison, and 'sblead I swear they shall have none 
on't ; so stand to your arms, measter. 

Mon. Barn. Ay, you've done finely, rogue, 
rascal, have you not ? [Beating him. 

Col. 'Sblead, I say they shan't have our venison ! 
I'll die before I'll part with it. [Exit. 

Enter Monsieur Griffard. 

Mon. Griff. Brother, there's some gentlemen 
within ask for you. 

Mon. Barn. What gentlemen ? who are they ? 
Mon. Griff. The gentlemen that have been 



hunting all this morning, they're now gone up to 
your wife's chamber. 

Mon. Barn. The devil go with 'em ! 

Mon. Griff. There's but one way to get rid of 
this plague, and that is, as I told you before, to 
set your house on fire. 

Mon. Barn. That's doing myself an injury, not 
them. 

Mon. Griff. There's dogs, horses, masters, and 
servants, all intend to stay here till to-morrow 
morning, that they may be near the woods to hunt 
the earlier : — besides (I overheard them) they're in 
a kind of plot against you. 

Mon. Barn. What did they say ? 

Mon. Griff. You'll be angry if I should tell ye. 

Mon. Barn. Can I be more angry than I am ? 

Mon. Griff. They said, then, that it was the 
greatest pleasure in the world to ruin an old lawyer 
in the country, who had got an estate by ruining 
honest people in town. 

Mon. Barn. There's rogues for ye ! 

Mon. Griff. I'm mistaken if they don't play 
you some trick or other. 

Mon. Barn. Hold, let me consider. 

Mon. Griff. What are you doing ? 

Mon, Barn. I'm conceiving, I shall bring forth 
presently. — Oh, I have it! it comes from hence, 
wit was its father, and invention its mother ; if I 
had thought on't sooner, I should have been happy. 

Mon. Griff. What is it ? 

Mon. Barn. Come, come along, I say ; you 
must help me to put it in execution. 

Enter Ljsetta. 

Lis. Sir, my mistress desires you to walk up ; 
she is not able, by herself, to pay the civilities due 
to so much good company. 

Mon. Bam. O the carrion ! What, does she 
play her jests upon me too? — but, mum, he laughs 
best that laughs last. 

Lis. What shall I tell her, sir, will you come ? 

Mon. Barn. Yes, yes, tell her I'll come, with a 
pox to her ! [Exit with Monsieur Griffard. 

Lis. Nay, I don't wonder he should be angry : 
— they do try his patience, that's the truth on't. 

Enter Martamnb. 

What, madam, have you left your mother and the 
company ? 

Mar. So much tittle tattle makes my head ache ; 
I don't wonder my father should not love the 
country, for besides the expense he's at, he never 
enjoys a minute's quiet. 

Lis. But let's talk of your own affairs : — have 
you writ to your lover ? 

Mar. No, for I have not had time since I saw 
him. 

Lis. Now you have time then, about it imme- 
diately, for he's a sort of a desperate spark, and a 
body does not know what he may do if he should 
not hear from you. Besides you promised him, and 
you must behave yourself like a woman of honour, 
and keep your word. 

Mar. I'll about it this minute. 
Enter Charly. 

Char. Cousin, cousin, cousin, where are you 
going ? Come back, I have something to say to 
you. 

Lis. What does this troublesome boy want ? 

Char. What's that to you what I want ? Per- 



SCENE I. 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



m 



haps I have something to say to her that will make 
her laugh. — Why sure ! what need you care ? 

Mar. Don't snub my cousin Charly. — Well, 
what is't ? 

Char. Who do you think I met as I was coming 
here, but that handsome gentleman I've seen at 
church ogle you like any devil ? 

Mar. Hush, softly, cousin. 

Lis. Not a word of that for your life. 

Char. Oh, I know, I should not speak on't before 
folks ; you know I made signs to you above, that I 
wanted to speak to you in private, didn't I, cousin ? 

Mar. Yes, yes, I saw you. 

Char. You see I can keep a secret. — I am no 
girl, mun. — I believe I could tell ye fifty, and fifty 
to that, of my sister Cicely. — Oh, she's the devil 
of a girl ! — but she gives me money and sugar- 
plums — and those that are kind to me fare the 
better for it, you see, cousin. 

Mar. I always said my cousin Charly was a 
good-natured boy. 

Lis. Well, and did he know you ? 

Char. Yes, T think he did know me — for he 
took me in his arms, and did so hug me and kiss 
me ! — Between you and I, cousin, I believe he is 
one of the best friends I have in the world. 

Mar. Well, but what did he say to you ? 

Char. Why, he asked me where I was going ; I 
told him I was coming to see you ; You're a lying 
young rogue, says he, I'm sure you dare not go see 
your cousin : — for you must know my sister was 
with me, and it seems he took her for a crack, and 
I being a forward boy, he fancied I was going to 
make love to her under a hedge, ha ! ha ! 

Mar. So ! 

Char. So he offered to lay me a louis-d'or that 
I was not coming to you ; so, Done ! says I — Done ! 
says he, — and so 'twas a bet, you know. 

Mar. Certainly. 

Char. So my sister's honour being concerned, 
and having a mind to win his louis-d'or, d'ye see 
— I bid him follow me, that he might see whether 
I came in or no. — But he said he'd wait for me at 
the little garden gate that opens into the fields, and 
if I would come through the house and meet him 
there, he should know by that whether I had been 
in or no. 

Mar. Very well. 

Char. So I went there, opened the gate, and let 
him in — 

Mar. What then ? 

Char. Why, then he paid me the louis-d'or, 
that's all. 

Mar. Why, that was honestly done. 

Char. And then he talked to me of you, and said 
you had the charmingest bubbies, and every time 
he named 'em, Ha ! says he, as if he had been 
sipping hot tea. 

Mar. But was this all ? 

Char. No, for he had a mind, you must know, to 
win his louis-d'or back again ; so he laid me another 
that I dare not come back and tell you that he was 
there ; so, cousin, I hope you won't let me lose, for 
if you don't go to him and tell him that I've won, 
he won't pay me. 

Mar, What, would you have me go and speak 
to a man ? 

Char. Not for any harm, but to win your poor 
cousin a louis-d'or. I'm sure you will — for you're 
a modest young woman, and may go without danger. 



— Well, cousin, I'll swear you look very handsome 
to-day, and have the prettiest bubbies there ; do let 
me feel 'em, I'll swear you must. 

Mar. What does the young rogue mean ? I 
swear I'll have you whipped. 

[Exeunt Charly and Mariamne. 

Re-enter Colin. 

Col. Ha ! ha ! ha ! our old gentleman's a wag, 
i'faith, he'll be even with 'em for all this, ha ! ha ! 
ha! 

Lis. What's the matter ? what does the fool 
laugh at ? 

Col. We an't in our house now, Lisetta., we're 
in an inn : ha ! ha ! 

Lis. How in an inn ? 

Col. Yes, in an inn ; my measter has gotten an 
old rusty sword and hung it up at our geat, and 
writ underneath with a piece of charcoal with his 
own fair hand, At the Sword Royal ; Entertain- 
ment for Man and Horse ; ha! ha ! — 

Lis. What whim is this ? 

Col. Thou and I live at the Sword Royal, ha ! ha ! 

Lis. I'll go tell my mistress of her father's extra- 
vagance. {.Exit. 

Re-enter Monsieur Barnard and Monsieur Griffard. 
Mon. Bam. Ha ! ha ! yes I think this will do. 
— Sirrah, Colin, you may now let in all the world ; 
the more the better. 

Col. Yes, sir. — Odsflesh ! we shall break all the 
inns in the country : — for we have a breave hand- 
some landlady, and a curious young lass to her 
daughter. — Oh, here comes my young measter. — 
We'll make him chamberlain — ha ! ha ! 

Enter Dorant. 

Mon. Barn. What's the matter, son ? How 
comes it that you are all alone ? You used to do 
me the favour to bring some of your friends along 
with ye. 

Dor. Sir, there are some of 'em coming ; I only 
rid before to beg you to give 'em a favourable 
reception. 

Mon. Barn. Ay, why not ? It is both for your 
honour and mine ; you shall be master. 

Dor. Sir, we have now an opportunity of making 
all the gentlemen in the country our friends. 

Mon. Barn. I'm glad on't with all my heart ; 
pray how so ? 

Dor. There's an old quarrel to be made up 
between two families, and all the company are to 
meet at our house. 

Mon. Barn. Ay, with all my heart ; but pray 
what is the quarrel ? 

Dor. O, sir, a very ancient quarrel ; it happened 
between their great grandfathers about a duck. 

Mon. Barn. A quarrel of consequence truly ! 

Dor. And 'twill be a great honour to us if this 
should be accommodated at our house. 

Mon. Bam. Without doubt. 

Dor. Dear sir, you astonish me with this good- 
ness ; how shall I express this obligation ? I was 
afraid, sir, you would not like it. 

Mon. Bam. Why so ? 

Dor. I thought, sir, you did not care for the 
expense. 

Mon. Bam. O Lord, I am the most altered man 
in the world from what 1 was, I'm quite another 
thing, mun ! But how many are there of 'em ? 

Dor. Not above nine or ten of a side, sir. 
HH 



466 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



Mori. Barn. Oh, we shall dispose of them easily 
enough. 

Dor. Some of 'em will be here presently ; the 
rest I don't expect till to-morrow morning. 

Mon. Bam. I hope they're good companions, 
jolly fellows, that love to eat and drink well ? 

Dor. The merriest, best-natured creatures in 
the world, sir. 

Mon. Bam. I'm very glad on't, for 'tis such 
men I want. — Come, brother, you and I will go 
and prepare for their reception. 

[Exit with Monsieur Griffard. 

Dor. Bless me, what an alteration is here ! 
How my father's temper is changed within these 
two or three days ! Do you know the meaning 
of it? 

Col. Why the meaning on't is, ha ! ha ! 

Dor. Can you tell me the cause of this sudden 
change, I say ? 

Col. Why the cause on't is, ha 1 ha ! — 

Dor. What do you laugh at, sirrah ? do you 
know ? 

Col. Ha ! — Because the old gentleman's a droll, 
that's all. 

Dor. Sirrah, if I take the cudgel — 

Col. Nay, sir, don't be angry for a little harm- 
less mirth. — But here are your friends. 

Enter Messieurs La Garantiere, La Rose, and 
Trofignac. 

Dor. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Pasty 
Hall. — See that these gentlemen's horses are taken 
care of. [Exit Colin. 

La Gar. A very fine dwelling this. 

Dor. Yes, the house is tolerable. 

La Rose. And a very fine lordship belongs 
to it. 

Dor. The land is good. 

Trqf. This house ought to have been mine ; for 
my grandfather sold it to his father, from whom 
your father purchased it. 

Dor. Yes, the house has gone through a great 
many hands. 

La Gar. A sign there has always been good 
housekeeping in it. 

Dor. And I hope there ever will. 

Re-enter Monsieur Barnard and Monsieur Griffard, 
dressed like Drawers. 

Mon. Barn. Gentlemen, do you call ? will you 
please to see a room, gentlemen ? — Somebody take 
off the gentlemen's boots there. 

Dor. Father ! uncle ! what is the meaning of 
this ? 

Mon. Barn. Here, show a room. — Or will you 
please to walk into the kitchen first, gentlemen, 
and see what you like for dinner. 

La Gar. Make no preparation, sir ; your own 
dinner is sufficient. 

Mon. Barn. Very well, I understand ye. Let's 
see, how many are there of ye ?— [Counting them.'] 
One, two, three, four : well, gentlemen, 'tis but 
half-a-crown a-piece for yourselves, and sixpence 
a head for your servants ; your dinner shall be 
ready in half an hour. Here, show the gentlemen 
into the Apollo. 

La Rose. What, sir, does your father keep an 
inn ? 

Mon. Barn. The Sword Royal, at your service, 



Dor. But, father, let me speak to you ; would 
you disgrace me ? 

Mon. Barn. My wine is very good, gentlemen, 
but, to be very plain with ye, it is dear. 

Dor. Oh, I shall run distracted ! 

Mon. Barn. You seem not to like my house, 
gentlemen ; you may try all the inns in the county, 
and not be better entertained ; but I own my bills 
run high. 

Dor. Gentlemen, let me beg the favour of 
ye. 

La Gar. Ay, my young squire of the Sword 
Royal, you shall receive some favours from us ! 

Dor. Dear Monsieur La Garantiere ! 

La Gar. Here, my horse there ! 

Dor. Monsieur La Rose 1 

La Rose. Damn ye, ye prig I 

Dor. Monsieur Trofignac ! 

Trof. Go to the devil ! 

{Exeunt Messieurs La Garantiere, La Rose, and 
Trofignac. 

Dor. Oh, I'm disgraced for ever ! 

Mon. Barn. Now, son, this will teach you how 
to live. 

Dor. Your son ! I deny the kindred ; I'm the 
son of a whore, and I'll burn your house about 
your ears, you old rogue you ! [Exit. 

Mon. Barn. Ha ! ha ! — 

Mon. Griff. The young gentleman's in a passion. 

Mon. Barn. They're all gone for all that, and 
the Sword-Royal's the best general in Christendom. 

Enter Erastus's Servant talking with Lisetta. 

Lis. What, that tall gentleman I saw in the 
garden with ye ? 

Serv. The same, he's my master's uncle, and 
ranger of the king's forests. He intends to leave 
my master all he has. 

Mon. Barn. Don't I know this scoundrel ? 
What, is his master here ! — What do you do here, 
rascal ? 

Serv. I was asking which must be my master's 
chamber. 

Mon. Bam. Where is your master ? 

Serv. Above stairs with your wife and daughter ; 
and I want to know where he's to lie, that I may 
put up his things. 

Mon. Barn. Do you so, rascal ? 

Serv. A very handsome inn this. — Here, drawer, 
fetch me a pint of wine. 

Mon. Bam. Take that, rascal ; do you banter 
US ? [Kicks Mm out. 

Enter Madame Barnard. 

Mad. Bam. What is the meaning of this, hus- 
band ? Are not you ashamed to turn your house 
into an inn ? — and is this a dress for my spouse, 
and a man of your character ? 

Mon. Barn. I'd rather wear this dress than be 
ruined. 

Mad. Barn. You're nearer being so than you 
imagine ; for there are some persons within who 
have it in their power to punish you for your ridi- 
culous folly. 

Enter Erastus, leading in Mariamne. 

Mon. Barn. How, sir, what means this ? who 
sent you here ? 

Erast. It was the luckiest star in your firma- 
ment that sent me here. 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



467 



Mon. Bam. Then I doubt, at my birth, the 
planets were but in a scurvy disposition. 

Erast. Killing one of the king's stags, that run 
hither for refuge, is enough to overturn a fortune 
much better established than yours. — However, sir, 
if you will consent to give me your daughter, for 
her sake I vvill bear you harmless. 

Mon. Barn. No, sir ; no man shall have my 
daughter, that won't take my house too. 

Erast. Sir, I will take your house ; pay you the 
full value of it, and you shall remain as much master 
of it as ever. 

Mon. Barn. No, sir, that won't do neither ; you 
must be master yourself, and from this minute 



begin to do the honours of it in your own per- 
son. 

Erast. Sir, I readily consent. 
Mon. Bam. Upon that condition, and in order 
to get rid of my house, here, take my daughter. — 
And now, sir, if you think you've a hard bargain, 
I don't care if I toss you in my wife, to make you 
amends. 

Well, then since all things thus are fairly sped, 
My son in anger, and my daughter wed ; 
My house disposed of, the sole cause of strife, 
I now may hope to lead a happy life, 
If I can part with my engaging wife. 

[Exeunt omnes 



H H2 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



[UNFINISHED.] 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Sin Francis Hhadpiecb, a Country Gentleman. 

Lord Loverule. 

Sir Charles. 

Uncle Richard, Uncle to Sir Francis Head- 
piece. 

Squire Humphry, Son to Sir Francis Head- 
piece. 

Colonel Courtly. 

Captain Toupee. 

John Moody, ■> _ , ,, _ _ „ 

George I Servants to Sm Francis Head- 

Tom, ' J PIECE - 

James, Servant to Uncle Richard. 

Moneybag, Steward to Lord Loverule. 



Shorty ard, a Mercer. 

Lady Headpiece, Wife to Sir Francis Hkad- 

PIECE. 

Miss Betty, her Daughter. 

Lady Arabella, Wife to Lord Loverule. 

Clarinda, a young unmarried Lady, 

Mrs. Motherly, one that lets Lodgings. 

Martilla, her Niece. 

Mrs. Handy, Maid to Lady Headpiece. 

Doll Tripe, Cookmaid to her Ladyship. 

Deborah, Maid to Mrs. Motherly. 

Trusty, Maid to Lady Arabella. 



SCENE,— London. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Uncle Richard's 
House. 

Enter Uncle Richard. 

line. Rich. What prudent cares does this deep 
foreseeing nation take for the support of its wor- 
shipful families ! In order to which, and that they 
may not fail to be always significant and useful in 
their country, it is a settled foundation-point that 
every child that is born shall be a beggar, except 
one ; and that he — shall be a fool. My grandfather 
was bred a fool, as the country report ; my father 
was a fool, as my mother used to say ; my brother 
was a fool, to my own knowledge, though a great 
justice of the peace ; and he has left a son that 
will make his son a fool, or I am mistaken. The 
lad is now fourteen years old, and but just out of 
his Psalter. As to his honoured father, my much- 
esteemed nephew — here I have him. — [Takes out a 
letter.] In this profound epistle (which I have 
just now received) there is the top and bottom of 
him. Forty years and two is the age of him ; in 
which it is computed, by his butler, his own person 
has drank two-and-thirty tun of ale. The rest of 
his time has been employed in persecuting all the 
poor four-legged creatures round that would but 
run away fast enough from him, to give him the 
high-mettled pleasure of running after them. In 
this noble employ he has broke his right arm, his 



left leg, and both his collar-bones. Once he broke 
his neck, but that did him no harm ; a nimble 
hedge-leaper, a brother of the stirrup, that was by, 
whipped off his horse and mended it. His estate 
being left him with two jointures and three weighty 
mortgages upon it, he, to make all easy, and pay 
his brother's and sister's portions, married a pro- 
fuse young housewife for love, with never a penny 
of money. Having done all this, like his brave 
ancestors, for the support of the family, he now 
finds children and interest-money make such a 
bawling about his ears, that he has taken the 
friendly advice of his neighbour, the good lord 
Courtlove, to run his estate two thousand pounds 
more in debt, that he may retrieve his affairs by 
being a parliament-man, and bringing his wife to 
London to play off a hundred pounds at dice with 
ladies of quality before breakfast. But let me read 
this wiseacre's letter once over again. — [Reads.] 
Most honoured uncle, I do not doubt but you have 
much rejoiced at my success in my election. It has 
cost me some money, I own ; but what of all that ! 
I am a parliament -man, and that will set all to 
rights. I have lived in the country all my days, 
"'tis true ; but what then ! I have made speeches at 
the sessions, and in the vestry too, and can else- 
where, perhaps, as well as some others that do ; 
and I have a noble friend hard by, who has let me 
into some small knowledge of what's what at West- 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



409 



minster. Arid so, that I may be always at hand 
to serve my counfr.y, I have consulted with my wife 
about taking a house at London, and bringing her 
and my family up to town ; which, her opinion is, 
will be the rightest thing in the world. — My wife's 
opinion about bringing her to London ! — 111 read 
no more of thee — beast ! 

[Strikes the letter down with his stick. 

Enter James hastily. 

James. Sir, sir ! do you hear the news ? They 
are all a-coming. 

Unc. Rich. Ay, sirrah, I hear it, with a pox to it ! 

James. Sir, here's John Moody arrived already ; 
he's stumping about the streets in his dirty boots, 
and asking every man he meets, if they can tell 
where he may have a good lodging for a parlia- 
ment-man, till he can hire such a house as becomes 
him. He tells them his lady and all the family are 
coming too ; and that they are so nobly attended 
they care not a fig for anybody. Sir, they have 
added two cart-horses to the four old geldings, 
because my lady will have it said she came to town 
in nercoach-and-six; and — ha! ha! — heavy George 
the ploughman rides postilion ! 

Unc. Rich. Very well ; the journey begins as it 
should do. — James ! 

James. Sir ! 

Unc. Rich. Dost know whether they bring all 
the children with them ? 

James. Only Squire Humphry and Miss Betty, 
sir ; the other six are put to board at half-a-crown 
a week a head, with Joan Growse at Smoke-dung- 
hill-farm. 

Unc. Rich. The Lord have mercy upon all 
good folks ! what work will these people make ! 
Dost know when they'll be here ? 

James. John says, sir, they'd have been here last 
night, but that the old wheezy-belly horse tired, 
and the two fore-wheels came crash down at once 
in Waggonrut-lane. Sir, they were cruelly loaden, 
as I understand ; my lady herself, he says, laid on 
four mail-trunks, besides the great deal-box, which 
fat Tom sate upon behind. 

Unc. Rich. So ! 

James. Then within the coach there was Sir 
Francis, my lady, the great fat lapdog, Squire 
Humphry, Miss Betty, my lady's maid, Mrs. 
Handy, and Doll Tripe the cook ; but she puked 
with sitting backward, so they mounted her into 
the coach-box. 

Unc. Rich. Very well. 

James. Then, sir, for fear of a famine before they 
should get to the baiting-place, there was such 
baskets of plum-cake, Dutch-gingerbread, Che- 
shire-cheese, Naples biscuits, maccaroons, neats'- 
tongues, and cold boiled beef; — and in case of 
sickness, such bottles of usquebaugh, black-cherry 
brandy, cinnamon-water, sack, tent, and strong- 
beer, as made the old coach crack again. 

Unc. Rich. Well said ! 

James. And for defence of this good cheer and 
my lady's little pearl necklace, there was the family 
basket-hilt sword, the great Turkish cimiter, the 
old blunderbuss, a good bag of bullets, and a great 
horn of gunpowder. 

Unc. Rich. Admirable ! 

James. Then for bandboxes, they were so be- 
piled up — to sir Francis's nose, that he could 
only peep out at a chance hole with one eye, as if 



he were viewing the country through a perspective- 
glass. — But, sir, if you please, I'll go look after 
John Moody a little, for fear of accidents ; for he 
never was in London before, you know, but one 
week, and then he was kidnapped into a house of 
ill repute, where he exchanged all his money and 

clothes for a um ! So I'll go look after him, 

sir. \_Exit. 

Unc. Rich. Nay, I don't doubt but this wise 
expedition will be attended with more adventures 
than one. This noble head and supporter of his 
family will, as an honest country gentleman, get 
credit enough amongst the tradesmen, to run so far 
in debt in one session, as will make him just fit for 
a jail when he's dropped at the next election. He 
will make speeches in the house, to show the 
government of what importance he can be to them, 
by which they will see he can be of no importance 
at all ; and he will find, in time, that he stands 
valued at (if he votes right) being sometimes — 
invited to dinner ! Then his wife (who has ten 
times more of a jade about her than she yet knows 
of) will so improve in this rich soil, she will, in one 
month, learn every vice the finest lady in the town 
can teach her. She will be extremely courteous to 
the fops who make love to her in jest, and she will 
be extremely grateful to those who do it in earnest. 
She will visit all ladies that will let her into their 
houses, and she will run in debt to all the shop- 
keepers that will let her into their books. In short, 
before her husband has got five pound by a speech 
at Westminster, she will have lost five hundred at 
cards and dice in the parish of St. James's. — Wife 



and family to London with a pox 



[Exit. 



SCENE II. — A Room in Mrs. Mgtherly's 
House. 

Enter James, and John Moody. 

James. Dear John Moody, I am so glad to see 
you in London once more. 

John. And I you, dear Mr. James. Give me a 
kiss. — Why that's friendly. 

James. I wish they had been so, John, that you 
met with when you were here before. 

John. Ah — murrain upon all rogues and whores ! 
I say. But I am grown so cunning now, the deel 
himself can't handle me. I have made a notable 
bargain for these lodgings here, we are to pay but 
five pounds a-week, and have all the house to our- 
selves. 

James. Where are the people that belong to it 
to be then ? 

John. Oh ! there's only the gentlewoman, her 
two maids, and a cousin, a very pretty, civil young 
woman truly, and the maids are the merriest 
grigs— 

James. Have a care, John. 

John. Oh, fear nothing ; we did so play toge- 
ther last night. 

James. Hush ! here comes my master. 

Enter Uncle Richard. 

Unc. Rich. What ! John has taken these lodg- 
ings, has he ? 

James. Yes, sir, he has taken 'em. [Exit. 

Unc. Rich. O John ! how dost do, honest John ? 
I I am glad to see thee with all my heart. 



470 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



John. I humbly thank your worship. I'm staut 
still, and a faithful awd servant to th' family. 
Heaven prosper aw that belong to't. 

Unc. Rich. What, they are all upon the road ? 

John. As mony as the awd coach would hauld, 
sir : the Lord send 'em well to tawn. 

Unc. Rich. And well out on't again, John, ha ! 

John. Ah, sir 1 you are a wise man, so am I : 
home's home, I say. I wish we get any good 
here. I's sure we ha' got little upo' the road. 
Some mischief or other aw the day long. Slap ! 
goes one thing, crack ! goes another ; my lady 
cries out for driving fast ; the awd cattle are for 
going slow ; Roger whips, they stand still and 
kick ; nothing but a sort of a contradiction aw the 
journey long. My lady would gladly have been 
here last night, sir, though there were no lodgings 
got ; but her ladyship said, she did naw care for 
that, she : d lie in the inn where the horses stood, as 
long as it w.as in London. 

Unc. Rich. These ladies, these ladies, John ! — 

John. Ah, sir, I have seen a little of 'em, 
though not so much as my betters. Your worship 
is naw married yet ? 

Unc. Rich. No, John, no ; I am an old bache- 
lor still. 

John. Heavens bless you, and preserve you, sir. 

Unc. Rich. I think you have lost your good 
woman, John ? 

John. No, sir, that have I not ; Bridget sticks 
to me still, sir. She was for coming to London 
top, but, no, says I, there maybe mischief enough 
done without you. 

Unc. Rich. Why that was bravely spoken, John, 
and like a man. 

John. Sir, were my measter but hafe the mon 
that I am, gadswookers — though he'll speak stautly 
too sometimes, but then he canno hawd it ; no, he 
canno hawd it. 

Enter Deborah. 

Deb. Mr. Moody, Mr. Moody, here's the coach 
come. 

John. Already ! no sure. 

Deb. Yes, yes, it's at the door, they are getting 
out ; my mistress is run to receive 'em. 

John. And so will I, as in duty bound. 

[Exit with Deborah. 

Unc. Rich. And I will stay here, not being in 
duty bound to do the honours of this house. 

Enter Sir Francis Headpiece, Lady Headpiece, 
'Squire Humphry, Miss Betty, Mrs. Handy, John 
Moody, and Mrs. Motherly. 

Lady Head. Do you hear, Moody, let all the 
things be first laid down here, and then carried 
where they'll be used. 

John. They shall, an't please your ladyship. 

Lady Head. What, my Uncle Richard here to 
receive us ! This is kind indeed : sir, I am extremely 
glad to see you. 

Unc. Rich. [Salutes her.~\ Niece, your servant. 
— [Aside. ] I am extremely sorry to see you in the 
worst place I know in the world for a good woman 
to grow better in. — [Aloud.} Nephew, I am your 
servant too ; but I don't know how to bid you 
welcome. 

Sir Fran. I am sorry for that, sir. 

Unc. Rich. Nay, 'tis for your own sake : I'm 
not concerned. 

Sir Fran. I hope, uncle, I shall give you such 



weighty reasons for what I have done, as shall 
convince you I am a prudent man. 

Unc. Rich. That wilt thou never convince me 
of, whilst thou shalt live. [Aside. 

Sir Fran. Here, Humphry, come up to your 
uncle. — Sir, this is your godson. 

Squire Hum. Honoured uncle and godfather, I 
crave leave to ask your blessing. [Kneels. 

Unc. Rich. [Aside.'] Thou art a numskull I see 
already. — [Puts his hand on his head.] There, 
thou hast it. And if it will do thee any good, may 
it be to make thee, at least, as wise a man as thy 
father. 

Lady Head. Miss Betty, don't you see your 
Uncle ? 

Unc. Rich. And for thee, my dear, mayst thou 
be, at least, as good a woman as thy mother. 

Miss Bet. I wish I may ever be so handsome, 
sir. 

Unc. Rich. Ha ! Miss Pert ! now that's a 
thought that seems to have been hatched in the 
girl on this side Highgate. [Aside. 

Sir Fran. Her tongue is a little nimble, sir. 

Lady Head. That's only from her country edu- 
cation, sir Francis, she has been kept there too 
long ; I therefore brought her to London, sir, to 
learn more reserve and modesty. 

Unc. Rich. Oh, the best place in the world for it ! 
Every woman she meets will teach her something of 
it. There's the good gentlewoman of the house 
looks like a knowing person, even she perhaps will 
be so good to read her a lesson, now and then, 
upon that subject — [Aside.] An arrant bawd, or 
I have no skill in physiognomy ! 

Mrs. Moth. Alas, sir, miss won't stand long in 
need of my poor instructions ; if she does, they'll 
be always at her service. 

Lady Head. Very obliging indeed, Mrs. Motherly. 

Sir Fran. Very kind and civil truly ; I believe 
we are got into a mighty good house here. 

Unc. Rich. [Aside.] For good business very 
probable. — [Aloud.] Well, niece, your servant for 
to-night ; you have a great deal of affairs upon your 
hands here, so I won't hinder you. 

Lady Head. I believe, sir, I shan't have much 
less every day, while I, stay in this town, of one 
sort or other. 

Unc. Rich. Why, 'tis a town of much action 
indeed. 

Miss Bet. And my mother did not come to it 
to be idle, sir. 

Unc. Rich. Nor you neither, I dare say, young 
mistress. 

Miss Bet. I hope not, sir. 

Unc. Rich. Um ! miss Mettle. — [Going, Sir 
Francis following him.] Where are you going, 
nephew ? 

Sir Fran. Only to attend you to the door, sir. 

Unc. Rich. Phu ! no ceremony with me ; you'll 
find I shall use none with you or your family. 

Sir Fran. I must do as you command me, sir. 
[Exit Uncle Richard. 

Miss Bet. This uncle Richard, papa, seems but 
a crusty sort of an old fellow. 

Sir Fran. He is a little odd, child ; but you 
must be very civil to him, for he has a great deal of 
money, and nobody knows who he may give it to. 

Lady Head. Phu, a fig for his money ! you have 
so many projects of late about money, since you 
are a parliament-man, we must make ourselves 



SGENE II. 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



471 



slaves to his testy humours, seven years perhaps, 
in hopes to be his heirs ; and then he'll be just old 
enough to marry his maid. — But pray let us take 
care of our things here : are they all brought in yet ? 

Mrs. Hand. Almost, my lady ; there are only 
some of the bandboxes behind, and a few odd 
things. 

Lady Head. Let 'em be fetched in presently. 

Mrs. Hand. They are here. — Come, bring the 
things in. 

Enter Servant. 
Is there all yet ? 

Serv. All but the great basket of apples, and the 
goose-pye. 

Enter Doll Tripe. 

Doll. Ah, my lady ! we're aw undone ; the 
goose-pye's gwon. 

All. Gone? 

Sir Fran. The goose-pye gone ? how ? 

Doll. Why, sir, I had got it fast under my arm 
to bring it in, but being almost dark, up comes two 
of these thin starved London rogues, one gives me 
a great kick o' the — here ; [Laying her hand upon 
her backside.} while t'other hungry varlet twitched 
the dear pye out of my hands, and away they run 
dawn street like two greyhounds. I cried out fire! 
but heavy George and fat Tom are after 'em with 
a vengeance ; they'll sauce their jackets for 'em, 
I'll warrant 'em. 

Enter George with a bloody face, and Tom. 
So, have you catched 'em ? 

George. Catched em ! the gallows catch 'em for 
me ! I had naw run hafe the length of our beam, 
before somewhat fetched me such a wherry across 
the shins, that dawn came I flop o' my feace all 
along in the channel, and thought I should ne'er 
ha' gotten up again ; but Tom has skaward after 
them, and cried murder as he'd been stuck. 

Tom. Yes, and straight upo' that, swap comes 
somewhat across my forehead, with such a force, 
that dawn came I like an ox. 

Squire Hum. So, the poor pye's quite gone then ! 

Tom. Gone, young measter ! yeaten I believe 
by this time. These I suppose are what they call 
sharpers in this country. 

Squire Hum. It was a rare good pye. 

Doll. As e'er these hands put pepper to. 

Lady Head. Pray Mrs. Motherly, do they make 
a practice of these things often here ? 

Mrs. Moth. Madam, they'll twitch a rump of 
beef out of a boiling copper ; and for a silver tan- 
kard, they make no more conscience of that, tr „u 
if it were a Tunbridge sugar-box. 

Sir Fran. I wish the coach and horses, George, 
were safe got to the inn. Do you and Roger take 
special care that nobody runs away with them, as 
you go thither. 

George. I believe, sir, our cattle woant yeasily be 
run away with to-night ; but weest take best care 
we con of them, poor sauls ! {Exit. 

Sir Fran. Do so, pray now. 

Squire Hum. Feather, I had rather they had 
run away with heavy George than the goose-pye, 
a slice of it before supper to night would have been 
pure. 

Lady Head. This boy is always thinking of his 
belly. 

Sir Fran. But, my dear, you may allow him to 
be a little hungry after a journey. 



Lady Head. Pray, good sir Francis, he has been 
constantly eating in the coach, and out of the 
coach, above seven hours this day. I wish my 
poor girl could eat a quarter as much. 

Miss Bet. Mama, I could eat a good deal more 
than I do, but then I should grow fat mayhap, like 
him, and spoil my shape. 

Lady Head. Mrs. Motherly, will you be so kind 
to tell them where they shall carry the things ? 

Mrs. Moth. Madam, Til do the best I can : I 
doubt our closets will scarce hold 'em all, but we 
have garrets and cellars, which, with the help of 
hiring a store-room, I hope may do. — [ To Tom.] 
Sir, will you be so good to help my maids a little 
in carrying away the things? 

Tom. With all my heart, forsooth, if I con but 
see my way ; but these whoresons have awmost 
knocked my eyen awt. {They carry off the things. 

Mrs. Moth. Will your ladyship please to refresh 
yourself with a dish of tea, after your fatigue ? I 
think I have pretty good. 

Lady Head. If you please, Mrs. Motherly. 

{Exit Mrs. Motherly. 

Squire Hum. Would not a good tankard of 
strong beer, nutmeg, and sugar, do better, feather, 
with a toast and some cheese ? 

Sir Fran. I think it would, son. — Here, John 
Moody, get us a tankard of good hearty stuff 
presently. 

John. Sir, here's Norfolk-nog to be had at next 
door. 

Squire Hum. That's best of all, feather ; but 
make haste with it, John. {Exit John Moody. 

Lady Head. Well, I wonder, Sir Francis, you 
will encourage that lad to swill his guts thus with 
such beastly, lubberly liquor : if it were bur- 
gundy, or champagne, something might be said 
for't ; they'd perhaps give him some wit and 
spirit ; but such heavy, muddy stuff as this will 
make him quite stupid. 

Sir Fran. Why you know, my dear, I have 
drank good ale and strong beer these thirty years, 
andbyyour permission I don't know that I want wit. 

Miss Bet. But you might have had more, papa, 
if you had been governed by my mother. 

Re-enter John Moody, with a tankard, $c. 

Sir Fran. Daughter, he that is governed by his 
wife, has no wit at all. 

Miss Bet. Then I hope I shall marry a fool, 
father, for I shall love to govern dearly. 

Sir Fran. Here, Humphry, here's to thee. — 
[Drinks.] You are too pert, child, it don't do 
well in a young woman. 

Lady Head. Pray, sir Francis, don't snub her, 
she has a fine growing spirit, and if you check her 
so, you'll make her as dull as her brother there. 

Squire Hum. Indeed, mother, I think my sister 
is too forward. [After drinking a long draught. 

Miss Bet. You, you think I'm too forward ! 
what have you to' do to think, brother Heavy ? 
you are too fat to think of anything but your belly. 

Lady Head. Well said, miss ; he's none of your 
master, though he's your elder brother. 

Re-enter George. 

George. Sir, I have no good opinion of this 
tawne, it's made up of mischief, I think. 

Sir Fran. Why, waht's the matter now ? 

George, l'se tell your worship ; before we were 
gotten to the street end, a great luggerheaded cart, 



472 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



with wheels as thick as a good brick wall, laid hawld 
of the coach, and has pood it aw to bits. An this be 
London, wa'd we were all weel i'th' country again. 

Miss Bet. What have you to do, sir, to wish us 
all in the country again, lubber ? I hope we shan't 
go in the country again these seven years, mama, 
let twenty coaches be pulled to pieces. 

Sir Fran. Hold your tongue, Betty. — [To 
George.] Was Roger in no fault in this ? 

George. No, sir, nor I neither. Are not you 
ashamed, says Roger to the carter, to do such an 
unkind thing to strangers ? No, says he, you bump- 
kin. — Sir, he did the thing on very purpose, and so 
the folks said that stood by ; but they said your 
worship need na be concerned, for you might have 
a lawsuit with him when you pleased, that would 
not cost you above a hundred pounds, and mayhap 
you might get the better of him. 

Sir Fran. I'll try what I can do with him, egad, 
I'll make such — 

Squire Hum. Feather, have him before the par- 
liament. 

Sir Fran. And so I will : I'll make him know 
who I am. Where does he live ? 

George. I believe in London, sir. 

Sir Fran. What's the villain's name ? 

George. I think I heard somebody call him Dick. 

Sir Fran. Where did he go ? 

George. Sir, he went home. 

Sir Fran. Where's that ? 

George. By my troth I do naw knaw. I heard 
him say he had nothing more to do with us to- 
night, and so he'd go home and smoke a pipe. 

Lady Head. Come, sir Francis, don't put your- 
self in a heat, accidents will happen to people in 
travelling abroad to see the world. Eat your 
supper heartily, go to bed, sleep quietly, and to- 
morrow see if you can buy a handsome second- 
hand coach for present use, bespeak a new one, 
and then all's easy. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. — Another Room in the same. 
Enter Colonel Courtly. 

Col Who's that, Deborah ? 

Enter Deborah. 

Deb. At your service, sir. 

Col. What, do you keep open house here ? I 
found the street door as wide as it could gape. 

Deb. Sir, we are all in a bustle, we have lodgers 
come in to-night, the house full. 

Col. Where's your mistress ? 

Deb. Prodigious busy with her company ; but 
I'll tell Mrs. Martilla you are here, I believe she'll 
come to you. 

Col. That will do as well. — [Exit Deborah. ] 
Poor Martilla ! she's a very good girl, and I have 
loved her a great while. I think six months 
it is, since, like a merciless highwayman, I made 
her deliver all she had about her ; she begged 
hard, poor thing, I'd leave her one small bauble. 
Had I let her keep it, I believe she had still kept 
me. Could women but refuse their ravenous 
lovers that one dear destructive moment, how 
long might they reign over them ! — But for a bane 
to both their joys and ours, when they have indulged 
us with such favours as to make us adore them, they 
are not able to refuse us that one which puts an 
end to our devotion. 



Enter Martilla. 
Martilla, how dost thou do, my child ? 

Mar. As well as a losing gamester can. 

Col. Why, what have you lost ? 

Mar. I have lost you. 

Col. How came you to lose me ? 

Mar. By losing myself. 

Col. We can be friends still. 

Mar. Dull ones. 

Col. Useful ones perhaps. Shall I help thee to 
a good husband ? 

Mar. Not if I were rich enough to live without one. 

Col. I'm sorry I am not rich enough to make 
thee so ; but we won't talk of melancholy things. 
Who are these folks your aunt has got in her house? 

Mar. One sir Francis Headpiece and his lady, 
with a son and daughter. 

Col. Headpiece ! cotso, I know 'em a little. I 
met with 'em at a race in the country two years 
since ; a sort of blockhead, is not he ? 

Mar. So they say. 

Col. His wife seemed a mettled gentlewoman, if 
she had had but a fair field to range in. 

Mar. That she won't want now, for they stay 
in town the whole winter. 

Col. Oh, that will do to show all her parts in. 
Enter Mrs. Motherly. 
How do you do, my old acquaintance ? 

Mrs. Moth. At your service you know always, 
colonel. 

Col. I hear you have got good company in the 
house. 

Mrs. Moth. I hope it will prove so ; he's a par- 
liament man only, colonel, you know there's some 
danger in that. 

Col. Oh, never fear, he'll pay his landlady, 
though he don't pay his butcher. 

Mrs. Moth. His wife's a clever woman. 

Col. So she is. 

Mrs. Moth. How do you know ? 

Col. I have seen her in the country, and 1 begin 
to think I'll visit her in town. 

Mrs. Moth. You begin to look like a rogue. 

Col. What, your wicked fancies are stirring 
already ? 

Mrs. Moth. Yours afe, or I'm mistaken. But 
— I'll have none of your pranks played upon her. 

Col. Why she's no girl, she can defend herself. 

Mrs. Moth. But what if she won't ? 

Col. Why, then, she can blame neither you nor me. 

Mrs. Moth. You'll never be quiet till you get 
my windows broke ; but I must go and attend my 
lodgers, so good night. 

Col. Do so, and give my service to my lady, 
and tell her, if she'll give me leave, I'll do myself 
the honour to-morrow to come and tender my 
services to her, as long as she stays in town. — 
[Aside.] If it ben't too long. 

Mrs. Moth. I'll tell her what a devil you are, 
and advise her to have a care of you. 

Col. Do, that will make her every time she sees 
me think of what I'd be at. — [Exit Mrs. Mother- 
ly.] Dear Martilla, good night, I know you won't 
be my hindrance ; I'll do you as good a turn some 
time or other. Well, I am so glad, you don't love 
me too much. 

Mar. When that's our fate, as too, too oft we 
prove, 
How bitterly we pay the past delights of love! 

[Exeunt. 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



473 



ACT II. 



SCENE L- 



■A Room in Lord Lovertjle's 
House. 



Enter Lord Loverule and Lady Arabella. 
Lady Ara. Well, look you, my lord, I can bear 
it no longer ; nothing still but about my faults, my 
faults ! an agreeable subject truly ! 

Lord Love. But, madam, if you won't bear of 
your faults, how is it likely you should ever mend 
'em? 

Lady Ara. Why, I don't intend to mend 'em. 
I can't mend 'em, I have told you so a hundred 
times ; you know I have tried to do it, over and 
over, and it hurts me so I can't bear it. Why, 
don't you know, my lord, that whenever (just to 
please you only) I have gone about to wean myself 
from a fault (one of my faults I mean that I love 
dearly), han't it put me so out of humour you 
could scarce endure the house with me ? 

Lord Love. Look you, my dear, it is very true, 
that in weaning one's self from— 

Lady Ara. Weaning ! why, ay, don't you see, 
that even in weaning poor children from the nurse 
it's almost the death of 'em? and don't you see 
your true religious people, when they go about to 
wean themselves, and have solemn days of fasting 
and praying, on purpose to help them, does it not j 
so disorder them, there's no coming near 'em; are 
they not as cross as the devil ? and then they don't 
do the business neither ; for next day their faults 
are just where they were the day before. 

Lord Love. But, madam, can you think it a rea- 
sonable thing to be abroad till two o'clock in the 
morning, when you know I go to bed at eleven ? 

Lady Ara. And can you think it a wise thing 
(to talk your own way now) to go to bed at 
eleven, when you know I am likely to disturb you 
by coming there at three ? 

Lord Love. Well, the manner of women's living 
of late is insupportable, and some way or other — 

Lady Ara. It's to be mended, I suppose. — Pray, 
my lord, one word of fair argument. You com- 
plain of my late hours ; I of your early ones ; so 
far we are even, you'll allow. But which gives us 
the best figure in the eye of the polite world ? My 
two o'clock speaks life, activity, spirit, and vigour ; 
your eleven has a dull, drowsy, stupid, good-for- 
nothing sound with it. It savours much of a me- 
chanic, who must get to bed betimes that he may 
rise early to open his shop, faugh ! 

Lord Love. I thought to go to bed early and 
rise so, was ever esteemed a right practice for all 
people. 

Lady Ara. Beasts do it. 

Lord Love. Fy, fy, madam, fy! But 'tis not 
your ill hours alone disturb me ; but the ill com- 
pany who occasion those ill hours. 

Lady Ara. And pray what ill company may 
those be ? 

Lord Love. Why, women that lose their money, 
and men that win it : especially when 'tis to be 
paid out of their husband's estate ; or if that fail, 
and the creditor be a little pressing, the lady will 
perhaps be obliged to try if the gentleman, instead 
of gold, will accept of a trinket. 



Lady Ara. My lord, you grow scurrilous, and 
you'll make me hate you. I'll have you to know 
I keep company with the politest people in the 
town, and the assemblies I frequent are full of such. 

Lord Love. So are the churches now and then. 

Lady Ara. My friends frequent them often, as 
well as the assemblies. 

Lord Love. They would do it oftener, if a groom 
of the chamber there were allowed to furnish cards 
and dice to the company. 

Lady Ara. You'd make a woman mad ! 

Lord Love. You'd make a man a fool. 

Lady Ara. If Heaven has made you otherwise, 
that won't be in my power. 

Lord Love. I'll try if I can prevent your making 
me a beggar at least. 

Lady Ara. A beggar ! Croesus ! I'm out of 
patience ! — I won't come home till four to-morrow 
morning. 

Lord Love. I'll order the doors to be locked at 
twelve. 

Lady Ara. Then I won't come home till to- 
morrow night. 

Lord Love. Then you shall never come home 
again, madam. [Exit. 

Lady Ara. There he has knocked me down. 
My father upon our marriage said, wives were 
come to that pass, he did not think it fit they 
should be trusted with pin-money, and so would 
not let this man settle one penny upon his poor 
wife, to serve her at a dead lift for separate main- 
tenance. 

Enter Clarenda. 

Clar. Good-morrow, madam; how do you do 
to-day ? you seem to be in a little fluster. 

Lady Ara. My lord has been in one, and as I 
am the most complaisant poor creature in the 
world, I put myself into one too, purely to be 
suitable company to him. 

Clar. You are prodigious good ; but surely it 
must be mighty agreeable when a man and his wife 
can give themselves the same turn of conversation. 

Lady Ara. Oh, the prettiest thing in the world ! 

Clar. But yet, though I believe there's no life 
so happy as a married one, in the main ; yet I 
fancy, where two people are so very much together, 
they must often be in want of something to talk 
upon. 

Lady Ara. Clarinda, you are the most mistaken 
in the world ; married people have things to talk 
of, child, that never enter into the imagination of 
others. Why now, here's my lord and I, we han't 
been married above two short years, you know, and 
we have already eight or ten things constantly in 
bank, that whenever we want company, we can 
talk of any one of them for two hours together, 
and the subject never the flatter. It will be as 
fresh next day, if we have occasion for it, as it was 
the first day it entertained us. 

Clar. Why that must be wonderful pretty. 

Lady Ara. Oh, there's no life like it ! This 
very day now, for example, my lord and I, after a 
pretty cheerful tete-a-ttte dinner, sat down by the 
fireside, in an idle, indolent, picktooth way for a 
while, as if we had not thought of one another's 



474 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



being in the room. At last (stretching himself, 
and yawning twice), my dear, says he, you came 
home very late last night. 'Twas but two in the 
morning, says I. I was in bed (yawning) by 
eleven, says he. So you are every night, says I. 
Well, says he, I am amazed how you can sit up 
so late. How can you be amazed, says I, at a 
thing that happens so often ? Upon which we 
entered into conversation. And though this is a 
point has entertained us above fifty times already, 
we always find so many pretty new things to say 
upon't, that I believe in my soul it will last as long 
as we live. 

Clar. But in such sort of family dialogues 
(though extremely well for passing of time) don't 
there now and then enter some little witty sort of 
bitterness ? 

Lady Ara. O yes ; which don't do amiss at all, 
a little something that's sharp, moderates the 
extreme sweetness of matrimonial society, which 
would else perhaps be cloying. Though to tell 
you the truth, Clarinda, I think we squeezed a 
little too much lemon into it this bout ; for it j 
grew so sour at last, that I think I almost told him 
he was a fool ; and he talked something oddly of 
turning me out of doors. 

Clar. Oh, but have a care of that ! 

Lady Ara. Why, to be serious, Clarinda, what 
would you have a woman do in my case ? There 
is no one thing he can do in this world to please 
me — except giving me money ; and that he is 
growing weary of ; and I at the same time (partly 
by nature, and partly perhaps by keeping the best 
company) do with my soul love almost everything 
that he hates. I dote upon assemblies, adore 
masquerades, my heart bounds at a ball ; I love 
play to distraction, cards enchant me, and dice — 
put me out of my little wits. — Dear, dear hazard, 
what music there is in the rattle of the dice, com- 
pared to a sleepy opera ! Do you ever play at 
hazard, Clarinda ? 

Clar. Never; I don't think it sits well upon 
women ; it's very masculine, and has too much of a 
rake ; you see how it makes the men swear and 
curse. Sure it must incline the women to do the 
same too, if they durst give way to it. 

Lady Ara. So it does ; but hitherto, for a little 
decency, we keep it in ; and when, in spite of our 
teeth, an oath gets into our mouths, we swallow it. 

Clar. That's enough to burst you ; but in time 
perhaps you'll let 'em fly as they do. 

Lady Ara. Why 'tis probable we may, for the 
pleasure of all polite women's lives now, you know, 
is founded upon entire liberty to do what they will. 
But shall I tell you what happened t'other night ? 
Having lost all my money but ten melancholy 
guineas, and throwing out for them, what do you 
think slipped from me? 

Clar. An oath ? 

Lady Ara. Gud soons ! 

Clar. O Lord ! O Lord ! did not it frighten 
you out of your wits ? 

Lady Ara. Clarinda, I thought a gun had gone 
off. — But I forget, you are a prude, and design to 
live soberly. 

Clar. Why 'tis true ; both my nature and 
education do in a good degree incline me that way. 

Lady Ara. Wellj surely to be sober is to be 
terribly dull. You will marry, won't you ? 

Clar. I can't tell but I may. 



Lady Ara. And you'll live in town ? 

Clar. Half the year I should like it very well. 

Lady Ara. And you would live in London half 
a year, to be sober in it ? 

Clar. Yes. 

Lady Ara. Why can't you as well go and be 
sober in the country ? 

Clar. So I would the t'other half year. 

Lady Ara. And pray what pretty scheme of life 
would you form now, for your summer and winter 
sober entertainments ? 

Clar. A scheme that, I think, might very well 
content us. 

Lady Ara. Let's hear it. 

Clar. I could in summer pass my time very 
agreeably, in riding soberly, in walking soberly, in 
sitting under a tree soberly, in gardening soberly, 
in reading soberly, in hearing a little music soberly, 
in conversing with some agreeable friends soberly, 
in working soberly, in managing my family and 
children (if I had any) soberly, and possibly by 
these means I might induce my husband to be 
as sober as myself. 

Lady Ara. Well, Clarinda, thou art a most 
contemptible creature. But let's have the sober 
town scheme too, for I'm charmed with the coun- 
try one. 

Clar. You shall, and I'll try to stick to my 
sobriety there too. 

Lady Ara. If you do, you'll make me sick of 
you. But let's hear it however. 

Clar. I would entertain myself in observing the 
new fashions soberly, I would please myself in new 
clothes soberly, I would divert myself with agree- 
able friends at home and abroad soberly, I would 
play at quadrille soberly, I would go to court 
soberly, I would go to some plays soberly, I would 
go to operas soberly, and I think I could go once, 
or, if I liked my company, twice to a masquerade 
soberly. 

Lady Ara. If it had not been for that last piece 
of sobriety, I was going to call for some surfeit- 
water. 

Clar. Why don't you think, that with the fur- 
ther aid of breakfasting, dining, supping, and 
sleeping (not to say a word of devotion), the four- 
and-twenty hours might roll over in a tolerable 
manner ? 

Lady Ara. How I detest that word, tolerable ! 
And so will a country relation of ours, that's newly 
come to town, or I'm mistaken. 

Clar. Who is that ? 

Lady Ara. Even my dear lady Headpiece. 

Clar. Is she come ? 

Lady Ara. Yes, her sort of a tolerable husband 
has gotten to be chosen parliament-man at some 
simple town or other, upon which she has persuaded 
him to bring her and her folks up to London. 

Clar. That's good ; I think she was never here 
before. 

Lady Ara. Not since she was nine years old ; 
but she has had an outrageous mind to it ever since 
she was married. 

Clar. Then she'll make the most of it, I suppose, 
now she is come, 

Lady Ara. Depend upon that. 

Clar. We must go and visit her. 

Lady Ara. By all means ; and may be you'll 
have a mind to offer her your tolerable scheme for 
her London diversion this winter ; if you do, 



SCENE 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



475 



mistress, I'll show her mine too, and you shall see 
she'll so despise you and adore me, that if I do 
but chirrup to her, she'll hop after me like a tame 
sparrow, the town round. But there's your 
admirer I see coming in, I'll oblige him, and leave 
you to receive part of his visit, while I step up to 
write a letter. Besides, to tell you the truth, I 
don't like him half so well as I used to do ; he 
falls off of late from being the company he was, in 
our way. In short, I think he's growing to be a 
little like my lord. {.Exit. 

Enter Sir Charles. 

Sir Char. Madam, your servant; they told me 
lady Arabella was here. 

Clar. She's only stepped up to write a letter ; 
she'll come down presently. 

Sir Char. Why, does she write letters ? I 
thought she had never time for't : pray how may 
she have disposed of the rest of the day ? 

Clar. A good deal as usual ; she has visits to 
make till six ; she's then engaged to the play ; 
from that till court-time she's to be at cards at 
Mrs. Idle's ; after the drawing-room she takes a 
short supper with lady Hazard, and from thence 
they go together to the assembly. 

Sir Char. And are you to do all this with her ? 

Clar. The visits and the play, no more. 

Sir Char. And how can you forbear all the rest ? 

Clar. Tis easy to forbear what we are not very 
fond of. 

Sir Char. I han't found it so. I have passed 
much of my life in this hurry of the ladies, yet was 
never so pleased as when I was at quiet without 
'em. 

Clar. What then induced you to be with 'em ? 

Sir Char. Idleness and the fashion. 

Clar. No mistresses in the case ? 

Sir Char. To speak honestly, yes. When one 
is in a toyshop, there was no forbearing the bau- 
bles; so I was perpetually engaging with some 
coquette or other, whom I could love perhaps just 
enough to put it into her power to plague me. 

Clar. "Which power I suppose she sometimes 
made use of. 

Sir Char. The amours of a coquette, madam, 
generally mean nothing farther ; I look upon them 
and prudes to be nuisances much alike, though they 
seem very different : the first are always disturbing 
the men, and the latter always abusing the women. 

Clar. And all I think is to establish the cha- 
racter of being virtuous. 

Sir Char. That is, being chaste they mean, for 
they know no other virtue ; therefore indulge them- 
selves in everything else that's vicious ; they (against 
nature) keep their chastity only because they find 
more pleasure in doing mischief with it than they 
should have in parting with it. But, madam, if 
both these characters are so odious, how highly to 
be valued is that woman who can attain all they 
aim at without the aid of the folly or vice of 
either ! 

Re-enter Lady Arabella. 

Lady Ara- Your servant, sir. I won't ask your 
pardon for leaving you alone a little with a lady 
that I know shares so much of your good opinion. 

Sir Char. I wish, madam, she could think my 
good opinion of value enough to afford me a small 
part in hers. 

Lady Ara. I believe, sir, every woman, who 



knows she has a place in a fine gentleman's good 
opinion, will be glad to give him one in hers if she 
can. But however you two may stand in one 
another's, you must take another time if you desire 
to talk farther about it, or we shan't have enough 
to make our visits in ; and so your servant, sir. — 
Come, Clarinda. 

Sir Char. I'll stay and make my lord a visit, if 
you will give me leave. 

Lady Ara. You have my leave, sir, though you 
were a lady. [Exit with Clarinda. 

Re-enter Lord Loverule . 

Lord Ljove. Sir Charles, your servant ; — what, 
have the ladies left you ? 

Sir Char. Yes ; and the ladies in general I hope 
will leave me too. 

Lord Love. Why so ? 

Sir Char. That I mayn't be put to the ill-man- 
ners of leaving them first. 

Lord Love. Do you then already find your gal- 
lantry inclining to an ebb ? 

Sir Char. 'Tis not that I am yet old enough to 
justify myself in an idle retreat, but I have got, I 
think, a sort of surfeit on me that lessens much the 
force of female charms. 

Lord Love. Have you then been so glutted with 
their favours ? 

Sir Char. Not with their favours, but with their 
service ; it is unmerciful. I once thought myself 
a tolerable time-killer ; I drank, I played, I in- 
trigued, and yet I had hours enow for reasonable 
uses ; but he that will list himself a lady's man of 
metal now, she'll work him so at cards and dice, 
she won't afford him time enough to play with her 
at anything else, though she herself should have a 
tolerable good mind to it. 

Lord Love. And so the disorderly lives they lead 
make you incline to a reform of your own. 

Sir Char. 'Tis true ; for bad examples (if they 
are but bad enough) give us as useful reflections as 
good ones do. 

Lord Love. 'Tis pity anything that's bad should 
come from women. 

Sir Char. 'Tis so indeed ; and there was a happy 
time when both you and I thought there never 
could. 

Lord Love. Our early first conceptions of them, 
I well remember, were, that they never could be 
vicious, nor never could be old. 

Sir Char. We thought so then ; the beauteous 
form we saw them cast in, seemed designed a 
habitation for no vice, nor no decay ; all I had 
conceived of angels I conceived of them ; true, 
tender, gentle, modest, generous, constant, I thought 
was writ in every feature ; and in my devotions, 
Heaven, how did I adore thee, that blessings like 
them should be the portion of such poor inferior 
creatures as I took myself and all men else (com- 
pared with them) to be !— But where's that adora- 
tion now ? 

Lord Love. 'Tis with such fond young fools as 
you and I were then. 

Sir Char. And with such it ever will be. 

Lord Love. Ever. The pleasure is so great in 
believing women to be what we wish them, that 
nothing but a long and sharp experience can ever 
make us think them otherwise. That experience, 
friend, both you and I have had ; but yours has 
been at other men's expense ; mine — at my own. 



470 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



Sir Char. Perhaps you'd wonder should you 
find me disposed to run the risk of that experience 
too. 

Lord Love. I should indeed. 

Sir Char. And yet 'tis possible I may ; know, 
at least, I still have so much of my early folly left, 
to think there's yet one woman fit to make a wife 
of. How far such a one can answer the charms of 
a mistress, married men are silent in, so pass — for 
that, I'd take my chance ; but could she make a 
home easy to her partner, by letting him find there 
a cheerful companion, an agreeable intimate, a 
useful assistant, a faithful friend, and (in its time 
perhaps) a tender mother, such change of life, 
from what I lead, seems not unwise to think of. 

Lord Love. Not unwise to purchase, if to be 
had for millions ; but — 

Sir Char. But what ? 

Lord Love. If the reverse of this should chance 
to be the bitter disappointment, what would the 
life be then ? 

Sir Char. A damned one. 

Lord Love. And what relief ? 

Sir Char. A short one ; leave it, and return to 
that you left, if you can't find a better. 

Lord Love. [Aside.] He says right. — That's 
the remedy, and a just one. — For if I sell my li- 



berty for gold, and I am foully paid in brass, shall 
I be held to keep the bargain ? 

Sir Char. What are you thinking of ? 

Lord Love. Of what you have said. 

Sir Char. And was it well said ? 

Lord Love. I begin to think it might. 

Sir Char. Think on, 'twill give you ease. — The 
man who has courage enough to part with a wife, 
need not much dread the having one ; and he that 
has not ought to tremble at being a husband. — 
But perhaps I have said too much ; you'll pardon, 
however, the freedom of an old friend, because 
you know I am so ; so your servant. 

Lord Love. Charles, farewell ! I can take no- 
thing as ill meant that comes from you. — [Exit Sir 
Charles.] Nor ought my wife to think I mean 
amiss to her, if I convince her I'll endure no 
longer that she should thus expose herself and me. 
No doubt 'twill grieve her sorely. Physic's a 
loathsome thing till we find it gives us health, and 
then we are thankful to those who made us take it. 
Perhaps she may do so by me ; if she does 'tis well; 
if not, and she resolves to make the house ring 
with reprisals, I believe (though the misfortune's 
great) he'll make a better figure in the world who 
keeps an ill wife out of doors than he that keeps 
her within. [Exit. 



ACT III 



SCENE I. — A Room mMrs. Motherly's House. 
Enter Lady Headpiece and Mrs. Motherly. 

Lady Head. So, you are acquainted with Lady 
Arabella, I find. 

Mrs, Moth. Oh, madam, I have had the hon- 
our to know her ladyship almost from a child, and 
a charming woman she has made. 

Lady Head. I like her prodigiously ; I had 
some acquaintance with her in the country two 
years ago ; but she's quite another woman here. 

Mrs. Moth. Ah, madam, two years keeping 
company with the polite people of the town will 
do wonders in the improvement of a lady, so she 
has it but about her. 

Lady Head. Now 'tis my misfortune, Mrs. 
Motherly, to come late to school. 

Mrs. Moth. Oh ! don't be discouraged at that, 
madam, the quickness of your ladyship's parts will 
easily recover your loss of a little time. 

Lady Head. Oh, you flatter me ! But I'll en- 
deavour, by industry and application, to make it 
up ; such parts as I have shall not lie idle. My 
lady Arabella has been so good to offer me already 
her introduction to those assemblies where a woman 
may soonest learn to make herself valuable to 
everybody. 

Mrs. Moth. [Aside.] But her husband. — 
[Aloud.] Her ladyship, madam, can indeed, better 
than anybody, introduce you where everything 
that accomplishes a fine lady is practised to the 
last perfection. Madam, she herself is at the very 
tip top of it — 'tis pity, poor lady, she should meet 
with any discouragements. 

Lady Head. Discouragements ! from whence 
pray ? 



Mrs. Moth. From home sometimes — my lord 
a — 

Lady Head. What does he do ? 

Mrs. Moth. But one should not talk of people 
of quality's family concerns. 

Lady Head. Oh, no matter, Mrs. Motherly, as 
long as it goes no farther. My lord, you were 
saying — 

Mrs. Moth. Wiry, my lord, madam, is a little 
humoursome, they say. 

Lady Head. Humoursome ! 

Mrs. Moth. Yes, they,say he's humoursome. 

Lady Head. As how, pray ? 

Mrs. Moth. Wiry, if my poor lady perhaps does 
but stay out at night maybe four or five hours 
after he's in bed, he'll be cross. 

Lady Head. What, for such a thing as that ? 

Mrs. Moth. Yes, he'll be cross ; and then, if 
she happens, it may be, to be unfortunate at play, 
and lose a great deal of money, more than she has 
to pay, then madam — he'll snub. 

Lady Head. Out upon him, snub such a woman 
as she is ? I can tell you, Mrs. Motherly, I that 
am but a country lady, should sir Francis take 
upon him to snub me, in London, he'd raise a 
spirit would make his hair stand an end. 

Mrs. Moth. Really, madam, that's the only way 
to deal with 'em. 

Enter Miss Betty. 

And here comes pretty Miss Betty, that I be- 
lieve will never be made a fool of when she's 
married. 

Miss Bet. No, by my troth won't I. What, 
are you talking of my being married, mother ? 

Lady Head. No, miss ; Mrs. Motherly was only 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



477 



saying what a good wife you would make when you 
were so. 

Miss Bet. The sooner it's tried, mother, the 
sooner it will be known. — Lord, here's the colonel, 
madam. 

Enter Colonel Courtly. 

Lady Head. Colonel, your servant. 

Miss Bet. Your servant, colonel. 

Col. Ladies, your most obedient. — I hope, ma- 
dam, the town air continues to agree with you ? 

Lady Head. Mighty well, sir. 

Miss Bet. Ob, prodigious well, sir. We have 
bought a new coach, and an ocean of new clothes, 
and we are to go to the play to-night, and to-mor- 
row we go to the opera, and next night we go to 
the assembly, and then the next night after, we — 

Lady Head. Softly, miss. — Do you go to the 
play to-night, colonel ? 

Col. I did not design it, madam ; but now I find 
there is to be such good company, I'll do myself 
the honour (if you'll give me leave, ladies) to come 
and lead you to your coach. 

Lady Head. It's extremely obliging. 

Miss Bet. It is, indeed, mighty well-bred. — 
Lord, colonel, what a difference there is between 
your way and our country companions ! One of 
them would have said, What, you are aw gooing to 
the playhouse, then ? Yes, says we, won't you 
come and lead us out ? No, by good feggings, says 
he, ye ma' e'en ta' care o' yoursels, y' are awd 
enough ; and so he'd ha' gone to get drunk at the 
tavern against we came home to supper. 

Mrs. Moth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! well, sure madam, 
your ladyship is the happiest mother in the world 
to have such a charming companion to your 
daughter. 

Col. The prettiest creature upon earth ! 

Miss Bet. D'ye hear that, mother ? Well, he's 
a fine gentleman really, and I think a man of ad- 
mirable sense. 

Lady Head. Softly, miss, he'll hear you. 

Miss Bet. If he does, madam, he'll think I say 
true, and he'll like me never the worse for that, I 
hope. — Where's your niece Martilla, Mrs. Mo- 
therly ? — Mama, won't you carry Martilla to the 
play with us ? 

Lady Head. With all my heart, child. 

Col. She's a very pretty civil sort of woman, 
madam, and miss will be very happy in having 
such a companion in the house with her. 

Miss Bet. So I shall indeed, sir, and I love her 
dearly already, we are growing very great together. 

Lady Head. But what's become of your brother, 
child ? I han't seen him these two hours, where 
is he ? 

Miss Bet. Indeed, mother, I don't know where 
he is ; I saw him asleep about half an hour ago by 
the kitchen fire. 

Col. Must not he go to the play too ? 

Lady Head. Yes, I think he should go, though 
he'll be weary on't before it's half done. 

Miss Bet. Weary ! yes, and then he'll sit, and 
yawn, and stretch like a greyhound by the fireside, 
till he does some nasty thing or other, that they'll 
turn him out of the house, so it's better to leave 
him at home. 

Mrs. Moth. Oh, that were pity, miss. .Plays 
will enliven him. — See, here he comes, and my 
niece with him. 



Enter Squire Humphry and Martilla. 

Col. Your servant, sir ; you come in good time, 
the ladies are all going to the play, and wanted 
you to help gallant them. 

Squire Hum. And so 'twill be nine o'clock be- 
fore one shall get ony supper ! 

Miss Bet. Supper ! why your dinner is not out 
of your mouth yet, at least 'tis all about the brims 
of it. — See how greasy his chaps is, mother. 

Lady Head. Nay, if he han't a mind to go, he 
need not. — You may stay here till your father 
comes home from the parliament house, and then 
you may eat a broiled bone together. 

Miss Bet. Yes, and drink a tankard of strong 
beer together, and then he may tell you ail he has 
been doing in the parliament house, and you may 
tell him all you have been thinking of when you 
were asleep in the kitchen ; and then if you'll put 
it all down in writing, when we come from the play, 
I'll read it to the company. 

Squire Hum. Sister I don't like your joking, 
and you are not a well-behaved young woman ; and 
although my mother encourages you, my thoughts 
are, you are not too big to be whipped. 

Miss Bet. How, sirrah ? 

Squire Hum. There's a civil young gentlewoman 
stands there is worth a hundred of you. And I 
believe she'll be married before you. 

Miss Bet. Cots my life, I have a good mind to 
pull your eyes out ! 

Lady Head. Hold, miss, hold, don't be in such 
a passion neither. 

Miss Bet. Mama, it is not that I am angry at 
anything he says to commend Martilla, for I wish 
she were to be married to-morrow, that I might 
have a dance at her wedding ; but what need he 
abuse me for ? — \_Aside.~] I wish the lout had 
mettle enough to be in love with her, she'd make 
pure sport with him. — I Aloud.} Does your heavi- 
ness find any inclinations moving towards the lady 
you admire ? — Speak ! are you in love with her ? 

Squire Hum. I am in love with nobody ; and if 
anybody be in love with me, mayhap they had as 
good be quiet. 

Miss Bet. Hold your tongue, I'm quite sick of 
you. — Come, Martilla, you are to go to the play 
with us. 

Mart. Am I, miss ? I am ready to wait upon 
you. 

Lady Head. I believe it's time we should be 
going, colonel, is not it ? 

Col. Yes, madam, I believe it is. 

Lady Head. Come then ; who is there ? 

Enter Tom. 
Is the coach at the door ? 

Tom. It has been there this hafe haur, so please 
your ladyship. 

Miss Bet. And are all the people in the street 
gazing at it, Tom ? 

Tom. That are they, madam ; and Roger has 
drank so much of his own beverage, that he's e'en 
as it were gotten a little drunk. 

Lady Head. Not so drunk, I hope, but that he 
can drive us ? 

Tom. Yes, yes, madam, he drives best when he's 
a little upish. When Roger's head turns, raund go 
the wheels, i'faith. 

Miss Bet. Never fear, mama, as long as it's 
to the playhouse there's no danger. 



478 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



Lady Head. Well, daughter, since you are so 
courageous, it shan't be said I make any difficulty; 
and if the colonel is so gallant to have a mind to 
share our danger, we have room for him, if he 
pleases. 

Col. Madam, you do me a great deal of honour, 
and I'm sure you give me a great deal of pleasure. 
Miss Bet. Come, dear mama, away we go. 
[Exeunt Lady Headpiece, Miss Betty, Colonel Courtly, 

and Tom. 
Squire Hum. [ To Martilla.] I did not think 
you would have gone. 

Mart. Oh, I love a play dearly. [Exit. 

Mrs. Moth. I wonder, squire, that you would 
not go to the play with 'em. 

Squire Hum. What needed Martilla have gone ? 
they were enow without her. 

Mrs. Moth. Oh, she was glad to go to divert 
herself ; and, besides, my lady desired her to go 
with them. 

Squire Hum. And so I'm left alone ! 
Mrs. Moth. Why, should you have cared for 
her company ? 

Squire Hum. Rather than none. 
Mrs. Moth. [Aside.] On my conscience he's 
ready to cry ; this is matter to think of ; but here 
comes sir Francis. 

Enter Sir Francis. 
How do you do, sir ? I'm afraid these late parlia- 
ment hours won't agree with you. 

Sir Fran. Indeed, I like them not, Mrs. Mo- 
therly ; if they would dine at twelve o'clock as we 
do in the country, a man might be able to drink a 
reasonable bottle between that and supper-time. 

Mrs. Moth. That would be much better indeed, 
sir Francis. 

Sir Fran. But then when we consider that what 
we undergo is in being busy for the good of our 
country. — Oh, the good of our country is above all 
things ! What a noble and glorious thing it is, 
Mrs. Motherly, that England can boast of five 
hundred zealous gentlemen, all in one room, all of 
one mind, upon a fair occasion, to go all together by 
the ears for the good of their country ! — Humphry, 
perhaps you'll be a senator in time, as your father is 
now ; when you are, remember your country ; spare 
nothing for the good of your country ; and when 
you come home at the end of the sessions, you will 
find yourself so adored, that your country will come 
and dine with you every day in the week. — Oh, 
here's my uncle Richard. 

Enter Uncle Richard. 
Mrs. Moth. I think, sir, I had best get you a 
mouthful of something to stay your stomach till 
supper. 

Sir Fran. With all my heart, for Fm almost 

famished. [Exit Mrs. Motherly. 

Squire Hum. And so shall I before my mother 

comes from the playhouse, so I'll go get a buttered 

toast. [Exit. 

Sir Fran. Uncle, I hope you are well. 

Unc. Rich. Nephew, if I had been sick 1 would 

not have come abroad ; I suppose you are well, for 

I sent this morning and was informed you went 

out early ; was it to make your court to some of 

the great men ? 

Sir Fran. Yes, uncle, I was advised to lose no 
timej so I went to one great man whom I had never 
seen before. 



Unc. Rich. And who had you got to introduce 
you ? 

Sir Fran. Nobody. I remembered I had heard 
a wise man say, My son, be bold ; so 1 introduced 
myself. 

Unc. Rich. As how, I pray ? 
Sir Fran. Why thus, uncle ; Please your lord- 
ship, says I, I am sir Francis Headpiece, of Head- 
piece-hall, and member of parliament for the 
ancient borough of Gobble-guinea. Sir, your hum- 
ble servant, says my lord, though I have not the 
honour to know your person, I have heard you are 
a very honest gentleman, and I am very glad your 
borough has made choice of so worthy a represen- 
tative ; have you any service to command me ? 
Those last words, uncle, gave me great encourage- 
ment ; and though I know you have not any very 
great opinion of my parts, I believe you won't say 
I missed it now. 

Unc. Rich. I hope I shall have no cause. 

Sir Fran. My lord, says I, I did not design to 
say anything to your lordship to-day about busi- 
ness ; but since your lordship is so kind and free, 
as to bid me speak if I have any service to com- 
mand you, I will. 

Unc. Rich. So ! 

Sir Fran. I have, says I, my lord, a good estate, 
but it's a little aut at elbows, and as I desire to 
serve my king as well as my country, I shall be 
very willing to accept of a place at court. 

Unc. Rich. This was bold indeed. 

Sir Fran. Ecod, I shot him flying, uncle ; 
another man would have been a month before he 
durst have opened his mauth about a place. But 
you shall hear. Sir Francis, says my lord, what 
sort of a place may you have turned your thoughts 
upon ? My lord, says I, beggars must not be 
choosers ; but some place about a thousand a-year, 
I believe, might do pretty weel to begin with. Sir 
Francis, says he, I shall be glad to serve you iu 
anything I can ; and in saying these words he gave 
me a squeeze by the hand, as much as to say, I'll 
do your business. And so he turned to a lord that 
was there, who looked as if he came for a place 
too. 

Unc. Rich. And so your fortune's made t 

Sir Fran. Don't you think so, uncle ? 

Unc. Rich. Yes, for just so mine was made — 
twenty years ago. 

Sir Fran. Why, I never knew you had a place, 
uncle ! 

Unc. Rich. Nor I neither, upon my faith, ne- 
phew. But you have been down at the house since 
you made your court, have not you ? 

Sir Fran. O yes ; I would not neglect the house 
for ever so much. 

Unc. Rich. And what may they have done there 
to-day, I pray ? 

Sir Fran. Why truly, uncle, I cannot well tell 
what they did. But I'll tell you what I did : I 
happened to make a little sort of a mistake. 

Unc. Rich. How was that ? 

Sir Fran. Why you must know, uncle, they 
were all got into a sort of a hodge-podge argument 
for the good of the nation, which I did not well 
understand. However, I was convinced, and so 
resolved to vote aright, according to my conscience; 
but they made such a puzzling business on't, when 
they put the question, as they call it, that, I believe, 
I cried ay when I should have cried no ; for a sort 



SCENE 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



479 



of a Jacobite that sate next me, took me by the 
hand, and said, — Sir, you are a man of honour, and 
a true Englishman, and I should be glad to be bet- 
ter acquainted with you ; and so he pulled me along 
with the crowd into the lobby with him, when, I 
believe, I should have staid where I was. 

Uric. Rich. And so, if you had not quite made 
your fortune before, you have clenched it now. — 
[Aside ] Ah, thou head of the Headpieces ! — 
[Aloud.] How now, what's the matter here ? 

Re-enter Lady Headpiece, Miss Betty, Colonel Courtly, 
Squire Humphry, and Martilla, in disorder, some 
dirty, some lame, some bloody. 

Sir Fran. Mercy on us ! they are all killed. 

Miss Bet. Not for a thousand pounds ; but we 
have been all down in the dirt together. 

Lady Head. We have had a sad piece of work 
on't, sir Francis ; overturned in the channel as we 
were going to the playhouse. 

Miss Bet. Over and over, papa ; had it been 
coming from the playhouse I should not have cared 
a farthing. 

Sir Fran. But, child, you are hurt, your face is 
all bloody. 

Miss Bet. O sir, my new gown is all dirty. 

Lady Head. The new coach is all spoiled. 

Miss Bet. The glasses are all to bits. 

Lady Head. Roger has put out his arm. 

Miss Bet. Would he had put out his neck for 
making us lose the play ! 

Squire Hum. Poor Martilla has scratched her 
little finger. 

Lady Head. And here's the poor colonel, no- 
body asks what he has done. — I hope, sir, you have 
got no harm ? 

Col. Only a little wounded with some pins I 
met with about your ladyship. 

Lady Head. I am sorry anything about me 
should do you harm. 

Col. If it does, madam, you have that about you, 
if you please, will be my cure. I hope your lady- 
ship feels nothing amiss ? 



Lady Head. Nothing at all, though we did roll 
about together strangely. 

Col. We did indeed. I'm sure we rolled so, 
that my poor hands were got once — I don't know 
where they were got. — But her ladyship I see will 
pass by slips. r L Aside. 

Sir Fran. It would have been pity the colonel 
should have received any damage in his services to 
the ladies ; he is the most complaisant man to 'em, 
uncle ; always ready when they have occasion for 
him. 

Unc. Rich. Then I believe, nephew, they'll never 
let him want business. 

Sir Fran. Oh, but they should not ride the free 
horse to death neither. — Come, colonel, you'll stay 
and drink a bottle, and eat a little supper with us, 
after your misfortune ? 

Col. Sir, since I have been prevented from at- 
tending the ladies to the play, I shall be very proud 
to obey their commands here at home. 

Sir Fran. A prodigious civil gentleman, uncle ; 
and yet as bold as Alexander upon occasion. 

Unc. Rich. Upon a lady's occasion. 

Sir Fran. Ha, ha, you are a wag, uncle" ! but I 
believe he'd storm anything. 

Unc. Rich. Then I believe your citadel may be 
in danger. [Aside. 

Sir Fran. Uncle, won't you break your rule for 
once, and sup from home ? 

Unc. Rich. The company will excuse me, ne- 
phew ; they'll be freer without me ; so good night 
to them and you. 

Lady Head. Good night to you, sir, since you 
won't stay — Come, colonel. 

Unc. Rich. [Aside.] Methinks this facetious 
colonel is got upon a pretty, familiar, easy foot 
already with the family of the Headpieces — hum. 

[Exit. 

Sir Fran. Come, my lady, let's all in, and pass 
the evening cheerfully. And d'ye hear, wife — a 
word in your ear — I have got a promise of a place 
in court, of a thousand a-year, he, hem ! [Exeunt, 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. — Lady Arabella's Dressing-room. 

Enter Lady Arabella, as just up, walking pensively to 
her toilet, followed by Trusty. 

Lady Ara. Well, sure never woman had such 
luck ! — these devilish dice ! — Sit up all night ; 
lose all one's money, and then — how like a hag I 
look ! — [Sits at her toilet, turning her purse 
inside out.] Not a guinea — worth less by a hun- 
dred pounds than I was at one a clock this morn- 
ing — and then — I was worth nothing — what is to 
be done, Trusty ? 

Trus. I wish I were wise enough to tell you, 
madam : but if there comes in any good company 
to breakfast with your ladyship, perhaps you may 
have a run of better fortune. 

Lady Ara. But I han't a guinea to try my for- 
tune, — Let me see — who was that impertinent man, 
that was so saucy last week about money, that I 



was forced to promise, once more, he should have 
what I owed him this morning ? 

Trus. Oh, I remember, madam ; it was your 
old mercer Shortyard, that you turned off a year 
ago, because he would trust you no longer. 

Lady Ara. That's true ; and I think I bid the 
steward keep thirty guineas out of some money he 
was paying me, to stop his odious mouth. 

Trus. Your ladyship did so. 

Lady Ara. Prithee, Trusty, run and see whe- 
ther the wretch has got the money yet ; if not, tell 
the steward I have occasion for it myself; run 
quickly. [Trusty runs to the door. 

Trus. Ah, madam, he's just a-paying it away 
now, in the hall. 

Lady Ara. Stop him! quick, quick, dear Trusty. 

Trus. Hem, hem, Mr, Moneybag, a word with 
you quickly. 

Mon. [ Within.] I'll come presently. 



480 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



ACT IV. 



Trus. Presently won't do, you must come this 
moment. 

Mon. I'm but just paying a little money. 

Trus. Cods my life, paying money ! is the man 
distracted ? Come here, I tell you, to my lady 
this moment, quick. 

Enter Moneybag to the door, with a purse in his hand. 
My lady says, you must not pay the money to-day, 
there's a mistake in the account, which she must 
examine ; and she's afraid too there was a false 
guinea or two left in the purse, which might dis- 
grace her. — [ Ttvitches the purse from him.'] But 
she's too busy to look for 'em just now, so you 
must bid Mr. What-d'ye-call-'em come another 
time. — [Exit Moneybag.] There they are, 
madam. — [Gives Lady Arabella the money.] 
The poor things were so near gone they made me 
tremble. I fancy your ladyship will give me one 
of those false guineas for good luck. — [Takes a 
guinea] Thank you, madam. 

Lady Ara. Why, I did not bid you take it. 

Trus. No, but your ladyship looked as if you 
were just going to bid me, so I took it to save your 
ladyship the trouble of speaking. 

Lady Ara. Well, for once — but hark — I think 
I hear the man making a noise yonder. 

Trus. Nay, I don't expect he'll go out of the 
house quietly. I'll listen. 

Lady Ara. Do. [Trusty goes to the door. 

Trus. He's in a bitter passion with poor Money- 
bag ; I believe he'll beat him. — Lord, how he 
swears ! 

Lady Ara. And a sober citizen too ! that's a 
shame. 

Trus. He says he will speak with you, madam, 
though the devil held your door. — Lord ! he's 
coming hither full drive, but I'll lock him out. 

Lady Ara. No matter, let him come : I'll 
reason with him. 

Trus. But he's a saucy fellow for all that. 

Enter Shortyard. 
What would you have, sir ? 

Short. I would have my due, mistress. 

Trus. That would be — to be well cudgelled, 
master, for coming so familiarly where you should 
not come. 

Lady Ara. Do you think you do well, sir, to 
intrude into my dressing-room ? 

Short. Madam, I sold my goods to you in your 
dressing-room, I don't know why I mayn't ask 
for my money there. 

Lady Ara. You are very short, sir. 

Short. Your ladyship won't complain of my 
patience being so ? 

Lady Ara. I complain of nothing that ought 
not to be complained of ; but I hate ill manners. 

Short. So do I, madam — but this is the seven- 
teenth time I have been ordered to come, with 
good manners, for my money, to no purpose. 

Lady Ara. Your money, man ! is that the 
matter ? Why it has lain in the steward's hands 
this week for you. 

Short. Madam, you yourself appointed me to 
come this very morning for it. 

Lady Ara. But why did you come so late then ? 

Short. So late ! I came soon enough, I thought. 

Lady Ara. That thinking wrong makes us 
liable to a world of disappointments ; if you had 



thought of coming one minute sooner, you had 
had your money. 

Short. Gad bless me, madam ; I had the money 
as I thought, I'm sure it was telling out, and I was 
writing a receipt for't. 

Trus. Why, there you thought wrong again, 
master. 

Lady Ara. Yes, for you should never think of 
writing a receipt till the money is in your pocket. 

Short. Why, I did think 'twas in my pocket. 

Trus. Look you, thinking again ! Indeed, Mr. 
Shortyard, you make so many blunders, 'tis impos- 
sible but you must suffer by it, in your way of 
trade. I'm sorry for you, and you'll be undone. 

Short. And well I may, when I sell my goods to 
people that won't pay me for 'em, till the interest 
of my money eats out all my profit : I sold them 
so cheap, because I thought I should be paid the 
next day. 

Trus. Why, there again ! there's another of 
your thoughts. Paid the next day ! and you han't 
been paid this twelvemonth, you see. 

Short. Oons, I han't been paid at all, mistress. 

Lady Ara. Well, tradesmen are strange, unrea- 
sonable creatures, refuse to sell people any more 
things, and then quarrel with 'em because they 
don't pay for those they have had already. Now, 
what can you say to that, Mr. Shortyard ? 

Short. Say! why — 'sdeath, madam, I don't know 
what you talk of, I don't understand your argu- 
ment. 

Lady Ara. Why, what do you understand, man ? 

Short. Why, I understand that I have had above 
a hundred pounds due to me a year ago ; that I 
came by appointment just now to receive it ; that 
it proved at last to be but thirty instead of a hun- 
dred and ten ; and that, while the steward was 
telling even that out, and I was writing the receipt, 
comes Mrs. Pop here, and the money was gone. 
But I'll be bantered no longer if there's law in 
England. Say no more, Shortyard. [Exit. 

Trus. What a passion the poor devil's in ! 

Lady Ara. Why, truly, one can't deny but he has 
some present cause for a little ill-humour ; but when 
one has things of so much greater consequence on 
foot, one can't trouble oneself about making such 
creatures easy ; so call for breakfast, Trusty, and 
set the hazard-table ready ; if there comes no com- 
pany I'll play a little by myself. 

Enter Lord Loverule. 

Lord Love. Pray what offence, madam, have 
you given to a man I met with just now as I came 
in? 

Lady Ara. People who are apt to take offence 
do it for small matters, you know. 

Lord Love. I shall be glad to find this so ; but 
he says that you have owed him above a hundred 
pounds this twelvemonth ; that he has been here 
forty times by appointment for it, to no purpose ; 
and that coming here this morning upon positive 
assurance from yourself, he was tricked out of the 
money while he was writing a receipt for it, and 
sent away without a farthing. 

Lady Ara. Lord, how these shopkeepers will 
lie! 

Lord Love. What then is the business ? For 
some ground the man must have to be in such a 
passion. 

Lady Ara. I believe you'll rather wonder to see 



SCENE I. 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



481 



me so calm, when I tell you he had the insolence to 
intrude into my very dressing-room here, with a 
story without a head or tail. — You know, Trusty, 
we could not understand one word he said, but 
when he swore — good Lord ! how the wretch did 
swear ! 

Trus. I never heard the like, for my part. 

Lord Love. And all this for nothing ? 

Lady Ara. So it proved, my lord, for he got 
nothing by it. 

Lord Love. His swearing I suppose was for his 
money, madam. Who can blame him ? 

Lady Ara. If he swore for money he should be 
put in the pillory. 

Lord Love. Madam, I won't be bantered, nor 
sued by this man for your extravagances. Do you 
owe him the money or not ? 

Lady Ara. He says I do, but such fellows will 
say anything. 

Lord Love. [Aside."] Provoking ! — [Aloud.] 
Did not I desire an account from you, of all 
your debts, but six months since, and give you 
money to clear them ? 

Lady Ara. My lord, you can't imagine how 
accounts make my head ache. 

Lord Love. That won't do. The steward gave 
you two hundred pounds besides but last week ; 
where's that ? 

Lady Ara. Gone. 

Lord Love. Gone ! where ? 

Lady Ara. Half the town over I believe by this 
time. 

Lord Love. Madam, madam, this can be endured 
no longer ! and before a month passes expect to find 
me — 

Lady Ara. Hist, my lord, here's company. 

Enter Captain Toupee. 

Captain Toupee, your servant ; what, nobody with 
you ? do you come quite alone ? 

Capt. 'Slife, I thought to find company enough 
here — My lord, your servant. — What a dense, you 
look as if you had been up all night. I'm sure I 
was in bed but three hours; I would you'd give me 
some coffee. 

Lady Ara. Some coffee there, tea too, and cho- 
colate. [Exit Trusty. 

Capt. [Singing a minuet and dancing.} Well, 
what a strange fellow am I to be thus brisk, after 
losing all my money last night ! — But upon my soul 
you look sadly. 

Lady Ara. No matter for that, if you'll let me 
win a little of your money this morning. 

Capt. What, with that face ? Go, go wash it, 
go wash it, and put on some handsome things ; you 
looked a good likely woman last night ; I would not 
much have cared if you had run five hundred 
pounds in my debt ; but if I play with you this 
morning, egad I'd advise you to win, for I 
won't take your personal security at present for a 
guinea. 

Lord Love. [Aside.} To what a nauseous free- 
dom do women of quality of late admit these 
trifling fops ? and there's a morning exercise will 
give 'em claim to greater freedoms still. — [Points 
to the hazard-table.'] Some course must be taken. 

[Exit 

Capt. What, is my lord gone ? He looked me- 
th ought as if he did not delight much in my com- 
pany. Well, peace and plenty attend him for your 



ladyship's sake, and those — who have now and then 
the honour to win a hundred pounds of you. 

[Goes to the table singing and throws. 

Lady Ara. [Twitching the box from him.] 
What, do you intend to win all the money upon the 
table? — Seven's the main — set me a million, 
Toupee. 

Capt. I set you two, my queen — six to seven ! 

Lady Ara. Six. — The world's my own. 

Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Lady Ara. Oh, that my lord had but spirit enough 
about him to let me play for a thousand pounds 
a night — but here comes country company. 

Enter Lady Headpiece, Miss Betty, Mrs. Motherly, 
and Colonel Courtly. 

Your servant, madam, good morrow to you. 

Lady Head. And to you, madam, we are come 
to breakfast with you. Lord, are you got to those 
pretty things already ! [Points to the dice. 

Lady Ara. You see we are not such idle folks in 
town as you country ladies take us to be ; we are 
no sooner out of our beds, but we are at our work. 

Miss Bet. Will dear lady Arabella give us leave, 
mother, to do a stitch or two with her ? 

[Takes the box and throws. 

Capt. The pretty lively thing ! 

Lady Ara. With all her heart ; what says your 
mama? 

Lady Head. She says, she don't love to sit with 
her hands before her, when other people's are em- 
ployed. 

Capt. And this is the prettiest little sociable 
work, men and women can all do together at it. 

Lady Head. Colonel, you are one with us, are 
you not ? 

Lady Ara. O, I'll answer for him, he'll be out 
at nothing. 

Capt. In a facetious way ; he is the politest per- 
son ; he will lose his money to the ladies so civilly, 
and will win theirs with so much good breeding : 
and he will be so modest to 'em before company, 
and so impudent to 'em in a dark corner. Ha ! 
colonel ! 

Lady Head. So I found him, I'm sure, last 
night. — Mercy on me, an ounce of virtue less than 
I had, and sir Francis had been undone. 

Capt. Colonel, I smoke you. 

Col. And a fine character you give the ladies of 
me, to help me. 

Capt. I give 'em just the character of you they 
like, modest and brave. — Come ladies, to business ; 
look to your money, every woman her hand upon 
her purse. 

Miss Bet. Here's mine, captain. 

Capt. Oh, the little soft velvet one ! — and it's as 
full. — Come, lady Blowze, rattle your dice and away 
with 'em. 

Lady Ara, Six — at all — five to six — five — eight 
— at all again — nine to eight — nine. 

Enter Sir Francis, and stands gazing at them. 
Seven's the main — at all for ever ! [Throws out. 
Miss Bet. Now, mama, let's see what you can do. 
[Lady Headpiece takes the box. 
Lady Head. Well, I'll warrant you, daughter. 
Miss Bet. If you do, I'll follow a good example. 
Lady Head. Eight's the main — don't spare me, 
gentlemen, 1 fear you not — have at you all — seven 
to eight — seven. 



482 



A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 



ACT IV. 



Capt. Eight, lady, eight. — Five pounds if you 
please. 

Lady Ara. Three, kinswoman. 

Col. Two, madam. 

Miss Bet. And one for miss, mama. — And now 
let's see what I can do. — [Aside.} If I should win 
enough this morning to buy me another new gown 
— O bless me ! there they go ! — Seven ! — Come 
captain, set me boldly, I want to be at a hand- 
ful. 

Capt. There's two for you, miss. 

Miss Bet. I'll at 'em, though I die for't. 

Sir Fran. Ah my poor child, take care ! 

[Runs to stop the throw. 

Miss Bet. There. 

Capt. Out — twenty pounds, young lady. 

Sir Fran. False dice, sir. 

Capt. False dice, sir ! I scorn your words. — 
Twenty pounds, madam. 



Miss Bet. Undone ! undone ! 

Sir Fran. She shan't pay you a farthing, sir ; I 
won't have miss cheated. 

Capt. Cheated, sir ! 

Lady Head. What do you mean, sir Francis, to 
disturb the company, and abuse the gentleman 
thus ? 

Sir Fran. I mean to be in a passion. 

Lady Head. And why will you be in a passion, 
sir Francis ? 

Sir Fran. Because I came here to breakfast 
with my lady there, before I went down to the 
House, expecting to find my family set round a civil 
table with her, upon some plumcake, hot rolls, and 
a cup of strong beer ; instead of which, I find 
these good women staying their stomachs with a 
box and dice, and that man there, with the strange 
periwig, making a good hearty meal upon my wife 
and daughter — 



Ci5TBRA DSSUNT. 




25 . 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: March 2009 



A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 






